Shadows Fade in Sunlight
by Lady Devonna
Summary: Our heroes just get the Darkspawn mostly cleared out and then there're assassins with grandiose schemes every which where. A tale of politics, shadow warfare, and sarcastic elves. Zevran/M!Mahariel, follows Origins conclusion.
1. Chapter 1

Zevran was dreadfully bored. His Theron had gone to see off his silent giant friend, the scrumptious Orlesian dish was already away to revenge herself on her treacherous mentor, and he could only amuse himself so long chatting with the dog. The elf was decidedly unhappy. Not that he'd ever admit that, except perhaps as an overblown declamation about his ill-use.

He was deliciously well off, true. A bed big enough for two to comfortably sprawl in, three full, hot meals a day, and perfumed and coifed eye candy moving every which way were all luxuries unheard of to him. Why, if he kept this up for a bit, he might actually put on an ounce or two of flesh. The blight was over and the damage was minimal. He didn't approve of wanton destruction any more than the outwardly moral and upright, and as well as unnamed hundreds upon hundreds of reasonably innocent lives saved, Theron was intact and well, if a little inaccessible. He was inside a well-defended castle with a battle-hardened mabari at his side, the Crows probably still under the impression he had shuffled off his mortal coil. Yes, Zevran was in the pleasantest state of his life.

The elf glanced down at his hands. His embroidered Dalish gloves clashed terribly with the dress tunic he'd borrowed from that Oswyn character they'd extracted from Howe's rack, held to his slight frame with artful application of pins. He'd felt so naked going about unarmed he'd concealed a few security blades between tunic and smallclothes, but he'd been confined to small, cheap throwing daggers.

That about summed up his situation. This was a beautiful, safe, scrumptious world, but it wasn't his. The fine, ill-fitting clothes would have irked anyone, but only an elf and a foreigner would feel the constraint that he did. No knife-eared whoreson, basking in borrowed glory or no, was welcome here. Theron had slain an archdemon, ended two wars, and enthroned a king. Even the nastiest Ferelden noble wouldn't dare contest his right to stride about purposefully in dragon-scale armor crafted specially by a madman, crossbow on his back and slinging surprisingly charming insults like so many barbed bolts. The same consideration was not due to the hero's unsavory paramour.

And so Zevran wore borrowed finery along with secondhand relics of his past, almost inclined to leave off his boots and gloves so his little treasures needn't be insulted by the situation. He kept his eyes down around fine ladies and his mouth shut in the presence of their fine men. It wasn't so bad to be a mongrel among the pedigreed as long as he behaved, or so he told himself.

Zevran realized with a start that he was sulking. Most unbecoming. He rolled off the bed with a dramatic sigh and patted Theron's dog. "Come, my slightly malodorous friend. Join me for a game of Discomfit the King of Ferelden." Until recently, of course, that game had been called Bother Alistair, but the pomp and circumstance of a coronation seemed to call for a shift toward overblown language.

He tried not to slink when he moved. It really only attracted more attention with a slobbery beast trotting happily beside him and a gold and orange tunic, but the habit was very hard to kick. Zevran disapproved of the palace for the same reason he disapproved of Theron and Alistair's public appearances. The castle was awfully hard to enter with a lot of large, loud men with swords, but the dozens of little, barely used rooms and corridors could have concealed a dozen assassins who could probably just let themselves in at a kitchen door with a bit of effort. Fereldens.

He met Arl Eamon on the way to the king's corridors and the two men exchanged a nod. As far as Zevran could tell, the Arl didn't seem to mind at all that he dared to exist around decent people. A high compliment, all told. He found Alistair glowering at a pile of written edicts with a golden seal in hand. The king didn't seem to be reading, but rather contemplating (angrily), as though trying to force the elaborate legal language into his head by osmosis. The Mabari hopped up on the desk and licked his face.

"Ew." Alistair seemed to have missed their entry. A guard had noted and glared at Zevran, but the king himself was off in his own little world. Amusing, but worrisome. Zevran was fond of the thick-headed Warden in his way, and political chaos was no longer to be his bread and butter. And Theron would be the first targeted if this administration happened to fall. "Oh, hello… Dog." Theron had named the dog Cou'gi, something significant in Elvish, and Alistair had never been able to pronounce it. Zevran didn't have the best luck himself. The gentle, lilting tones of his mother's language evaded him.

"And hello to you, you horrible little man." Alistair looked happier to see Zevran than the elf was accustomed to. Probably just a welcome distraction from puzzling out pardons for Loghain's supporters. "And what can your humble ruler do for you this fine morning?"

"It is about four o'clock, Oh Majestic One." Zevran smiled beatifically while Alistair rolled his eyes. "Perhaps you have locked yourself away with your duties too long? A distraction seems in order. You know, from what I have overheard, young Lady Beatri's middle _name_ is Distraction… And her quarters are only a floor below us. Hmm?"

"Oh, hush. You're the opposite of helpful." He blushed, but Alistair blushed a lot. Zevran noticed that the king honestly didn't look interested, just flustered. In all fairness, the heiress was, from what he could tell, essentially the neighborhood donkey. Everyone had gone on a drunken joyride or two, but it was a rare soul that'd admit it.

Fairness, however, was no fun. "Oh, I see. Well, _I_ could distract you. Should you promise not to let word get back to himself. Or if you'd like to include him. I'm sure I can be sufficiently persuasive to—"

"No. No! We're ending this conversation! La la la I can't hear you…" The most amusing thing was he actually put his fingers in his ears. Zevran half wanted to pinch his cheek and ask him what he was going to learn in school next year. Precious.

"I am admittedly new to your customs, but is it considered… befitting for a king to express his estimable dignity in such a manner?" Nothing like smiling at a bewildered Alistair who knew he ought to be insulted but couldn't work out why. If Zevran could bottle that expression, he could buy an estate and a harem and retire. Where did one go to purchase harems. Were there bulk rates? Oh, well, all academic. "Were I to see it in Antivan royalty, I would assume she or he had already been poisoned and was in the delirium stages of a messy, protracted death."

"You tell the best bedtime stories." For someone with the brains of a rock, Alistair was excellent at sarcasm. Zevran had to give him that. "I know it's difficult to believe, what with my unimportant little job, but I'm actually very busy. Did you come here for a reason?"

"Aside from offering my extremely expert distraction services?" Zevran had to duck when Alistair threw an account book at him. Fortunately it only winged his shoulder. "You wound me, Your Highness. I am only trying my best to be a model citizen, selfless and adoring of my ruler."

Alistair tried to look threatening. It was strange. Zevran had seen this man dismember untold Darkspawn and execute Loghain in cold blood, but he was about as scary as a newborn kitten. Zevran had to try not to snicker as Alistair menaced him. "You keep this up and I'll have you put on a rack."

Zevran's eyes lit up and he clapped. On the small side even for an elf and surprisingly tidy with his easy living lately, his soft brown eyes and sun-bleached hair let him look innocent enough to horrify anyone in this context. "Oh do, do!" He reveled in Alistair's stunned expression. He was a bad, bad man. The king made a series of unconnected sputtering noises for a bit, picked up his inkwell, and emptied the contents over Zevran's head.

The elf blinked a bit, the sudden cold soaking now inching down his scalp. "…Well played."

"I honestly don't know why I did that. Or what I thought it would accomplish." Alistair had the decency to look sheepish.

"Well, that was honestly the genius of the maneuver. I am flummoxed, and I commend you, Your Majesty." Ink dripping down the side of his ear was a really singular sensation. He wasn't exactly sure what to do about this. Would a rapid dunking stop the staining? Theron was going to be very confused if there were suddenly a piebald brunette in his bed. But the ink dripping onto the tunic was a good sign. He'd have a perfectly good excuse to wear his own clothes again, and the king would have to take the blame.

"Ahem. Well. Clearly, that's what I meant to do." The king folded his hands and did a fairly good job of looking stately. Zevran would have bought it if there hadn't been ink oozing down the back of his neck. "Shut you up there. Ha. …_Did_ you have a reason to come and pester me? I've forgotten now."

"Aha. Yes." Though he was tempted to just excuse himself now and go dunk his head. That seemed like a retreat, though, and he was not retreating from Alistair of all people, even if he _had_ somehow been outmaneuvered. "I do, in fact, have a justification for pestering you beyond pure love of the entertainment. I am slated to join Theron in his wanderings… soon." Whenever that might be. Zevran had been secretly delighted with the idea of the two of them sweeping off into the sunset the moment the parade ended, but there had been preparations, complications, tribulations, and other –ation words that meant he and his Grey Warden would spend more time in the palace and less off having adventures. He'd barely seen his lover since the celebration began.

"Oh, yes." Alistair made a face. "You couldn't talk him out of it, could you? Would you, I guess, is the real question. I could use him."

"I believe his heart is set on his current plan." Or at least Zevran's was, and he was _not_ extending their time in this gilded cage another moment. "The reason I bring it up is my already stated intention to remain in Ferelden. To reinvent myself as a citizen, rather. I would be dead if I set foot in Antiva." And the Zevran who'd have intended to return was long dead, too, his life torn away with the darkspawn and Taliesin and werewolves. "To that end, I would like to swear fealty to the man who can now be the only ruler of any undertaking I may pursue."

Zevran took a moment to imprint forever on his memory the look on Alistair's face. If the elf had been confused by the ink on his head (now threatening to drip into one eye), it was nothing to the king's total consternation. Even Cou'ghi abandoned the chair leg he'd been happily gnawing to poke Alistair's hand with his wet nose, checking that the man's heart was still beating.

After a long delay, Alistair stood, hands behind his back and eyes narrowed in the most suspicious expression his kind face could manage. "So, let me make sure I have the facts. You." He jabbed his finger at Zevran's head. The tip came back black and a bit sticky. "You, the lunatic, incompetent assassin want to swear your sword to me." Again he pointed, leaving an amusing black splotch on his chest. "Me, the bastard king of Ferelden."

"And having laid out the cast of characters, our little play may begin." Zevran's request was perfectly sincere with only the least little ulterior motive. He was just enjoying himself. "Do you accept my sword or not? Well, metaphorically. My sword is actually under the bed in Theron's room. I could run and fetch it or use that ridiculous mirrored one on your wall."

"I think it's bolted on. Um, here." Alistair still looked confused, but he'd probably been born looking that way, and only more so since a crown was set on his head. He produced a shortsword from under his desk. Zevran noted that with approval. Maybe the king wouldn't be caught too terribly off guard when the first assassin inevitably arrived. "Plain, but it'll do. And I guess it suits you, since it's a little small."

Zevran glared for just a moment, but he knew Alistair didn't mean anything by the casual racism. He'd complain later. Baring the blade and balancing it carefully on upturned palms, he dropped to one knee, only to realize he had no idea what Fereldens said when they swore such oaths. He'd dozed or ogled nearby ladies during all the ceremonies he'd had to sit through the last few days.

Well, he was a master of improvisation. "I, Zevran Arainai, formerly of Antiva, Formerly of the Crows, son of Cardehni Arainai and… a gentleman unspecified, do hereby pledge myself to service of Ferelden's monarch in the practice of my craft and the strength of my arms, in the selfsame capacity as a native-born son." There. Pretty, serviceable, and in no way disruptive to his standing oath to Theron.

Alistair blinked for a moment and rather mechanically recited, "I, King Alistair of Ferelden, do accept thy pledge and thy blade with all my heart and bid thee to loyal service of crown and country as heart and duty shall guide thee." He sounded very awkward but almost cute trying to deliver his rote reply with feeling. The king took Zevran's borrowed sword, held it before him, and then bowed as he returned it. Considerably less elaborate than comparable Antivan ceremonies Zevran had watched from atop rafters or under floorboards. A good king for his land, whatever anyone said.

Zevran accepted the blade. Alistair's guard looked pointedly at the floor a few times before he took the hint and laid the sword at the king's feat. Alistair actually pressed his hand to his heart, something Zevran had never seen anyone actually _do_.

"I… I don't know what to think. I'm honestly touched, Zevran. And to think I didn't trust you." He gave the elf a bemused smile. "You know what? I… I'm going to find a title for you. It will have to be made up out of whole cloth, I think, but something to the tune of a royal hero's protectorate… I mean, it's the least I can do. What can I say?"

Zevran found this very charming, but of course he couldn't let it lie. He looked up to Alistair with his best innocent face. "How pleased you are to finally have me on my knees?"

"Oh… You're terrible!" Alistair bent slightly, hooked his hands under Zevran's arms, and hauled the slender elf to his feet without much effort. "Go… go and wash your hair." He shoved Zevran to the door and collapsed back into his desk chair with a groan, rubbing his temples. The guard patted his shoulder companionably.

Zevran smirked as he escaped. Mission accomplished. Some elaborate piece of paper with a pretty seal from the king wouldn't be much in the way of armor, but his tentative move from shadows in the corners of room to standing beside brash, bright Theron meant he needed a few new ways to protect them both. He didn't think that granting a token of favor to a foreign criminal was particularly outlandish as Alistair's reign was going, and it might give a potential enemy enough pause for Zevran to act.

Ha. Now to find a bathtub.

Washing didn't do much about the ink. He wasn't sure how long he'd have a blotch roughly the shape of Orlais covering about half his hair, but entirely too long seemed a fair estimate. And the drippy blob that covered half his left ear and a lot of his neck was even more charming. Damn Alistair.

Theron still wasn't back. He'd probably met a throng of admirers on the way back. Zevran found himself scowling as he toweled off, and not just at the ink blot on his head. He wasn't sure what annoyed him more. His Theron's insistence on acting as though safety was assured now and wandering about the city alone or, worse, in large groups? Or the idea of a gaggle of lithe-limbed, smooth-skinned young things all clamoring for the great hero's attention?

A delightful little mental image, in theory. And if Theron could be persuaded to bring one or two of them home… But the idea wasn't as sweet as it should have been. Zevran sighed. He was either getting old or going mad, probably a bit of both. Either way, he needed to go find some way to keep busy.

He and Cou'ghi wound up in the kitchens after a bit of restless prowling. People were often shocked to find that Zevran could cook, but to him it made perfect sense. When he'd been very young, the kitchens were the one part of the whorehouse where he'd known any sort of peace, hiding under the tables and listening to gossip while he smelled bread baking. That had just struck a spark, though. He'd learned his real skill with the Crows. One had to know ordinary herbs as well as the poisonous, to understand flavor and texture to have any luck in that mode of assassination. Blades were far simpler to use on dead flesh than a living victim, and any assassin knew a great deal about structural integrity and where to slice, be it cucumber or mutton under the knife. The kitchen was usually the easiest part of a noble house to penetrate, and being able to hide ably among the staff was an edge in many a mission. Zevran was far from the most accomplished chef among the Crows.

After the head cook left off shouting at him and the dog and his underlings emerged from hiding, Zevran managed to improvise an approximation of an Antivan soup. Ferelden didn't seem to have spicy sausage and the greens were a bit wrong, but he made do, and the result was perfectly edible. He was basking in the praise of a scullery maid and a footman when Cou'ghi looked up from his bone and barked happily.

He held his ears in a very particular way when Theron was nearby. Nobody else made the dog so happy. The reasons had been explained to Zevran at some point, but mostly he thought it was cute.

"There you are." Theron leaned against the doorframe, looking very tired. One of his braids had come undone and there were actually dark circles under his eyes. Zevran had thought that expression an exaggeration until he'd met his bone-pale lover. He actually looked more like he had a black eye. "Wynne told me you'd headed this way. …Is that an apron?"

"Yes. It is an apron." Zevran smiled cheerily, happier than he let on to see Theron. When he turned to greet Cou'ghi, the little jeweled ring in his ear caught the light from the cooking fire and glowed. Property of Zevran. "It enables me to make delicious dinners without damage to my impeccable person. Where have you been all day?"

"Every inch of Denerim, it feels like. My feet feel like lead." He walked over beside Zevran and the Theron's hand just barely brushed his lover's in a perfectly incidental sort of way. The Dalish elf was no more demonstrative or vocal than Zevran. "You made this?"

Alright, maybe he'd been looking forward to showing off. Spending so much time around painfully cultured nobles, he felt like a bit of a one-trick pony, and demonstrating his accomplishments was _fun_. "You sound shocked. I'm wounded." He turned to wink at Theron and stopped short. Yes, the other elf was clearly very tired, and yes, his eyes were a little puffy. But he didn't just _look_ as though he had a black eye. Without pausing to think, Zevran caught Theron's chin in his hand, staring levelly with an assassin's intent eye for detail. He quite ignored a couple of giggles at the familiar gesture. "Who hit you?" His voice was flat, not a hint of a joke.

Theron looked evasive, to say the least. "Let's discuss that after dinner?"

"No. We discuss it now and in detail." Zevran was quite unwilling to believe the Hero of Ferelden had just been smacked by accident in a tavern brawl. Theron? Sure. It didn't take much imagination to envision him mouthing off to the wrong person, and Theron didn't like finishing fights nearly as much as starting them. He was strong enough, hauling around that crossbow everywhere he went, but he preferred weaseling his way out of conflict or standing back and making everyone else fight the bad guys.

The blond latched onto Theron's wrist and marched him out of the kitchens. His lover was stronger than he was, but The Great Hero seemed to know better than to struggle. Zevran stopped only a few steps into the hallway. He didn't care that much if they were overheard, just that they had space to hear each other. "Now. Who hit you?"

"Prostitute by the name of Juny. She was a distraction, though. Someone paid her to get my attention while another individual came up behind." Theron was very good at wearing a mask, making people believe and react just as he liked. It didn't work nearly so well on Zevran, who had watched such machinations all his life and with a certain disgust. Theron made his shameless maneuvering almost endearing, but Zevran didn't care for it turned on him.

He stayed calm, though. "And who was this individual?"

"Um, we're not sure. She was in a few too many pieces to get information from." Zevran cocked his head and made a quizzical noise. Multiple pieces didn't sound like Theron's style. Fortunately, clarification was forthcoming. "They must have gotten impatient, because I'd only just waved goodbye to Sten about ten minutes before. It seems he ran into a kitten one street down and was… Well, he claims he was training it to become a great warrior among cats."

"…And he was no doubt successful." Despite Zevran's sudden black mood, the image was too precious not to laugh at. "So the assassin is mincemeat. And her lackey?"

"In custody, but probably doesn't know very much. My guess? She was drunk and desperate and accepted a few coins to annoy… what was it? Skinny knife-earred trash, I think she said." Theron shrugged.

Zevran sighed slightly, finally letting go of Theron's shoulders and only then realizing he'd been holding on. "Ahem. Well, I can see why you've developed an unhealthily cavalier attitude about miscellaneous factions attempting to end your career. That said, trust the expert and take this seriously." Sure, it was a laughable attempt, but they knew far too little. Just off the top of his head, Zevran could see this as testing the waters, an attempt to lull Theron into complaisance, or a staged attempt designed to make the Gray Warden look all the more noble. Set an assassin to catch an assassin. He could easily have set up any such scenario himself.

"You'll do me the favor of not going anywhere unarmed, unarmored, or unaccompanied. And speak of this in detail with Alistair and anyone else you deem wise." Zevran took a step back. The trouble with scolding Theron with about an inch between them, however much more effective it might make his remonstrations, was that a nose full of the man's oiled leather and fresh air scent was a terrible deterrent to rational thought.

"You'd better be careful, or people will start thinking you like me." Just the least little hint of color had risen to Theron's cheeks (ah, that complexion showed _everything_) and Zevran guessed his thoughts weren't far divergent. He coughed theatrically. Wouldn't do to run off to the bedroom before they'd eaten, rested, or done anything about the attack, Zevran reminded himself sternly.

"Heaven forbid. Come and eat something. I'm willing to believe you have gone and forgotten again." Theron didn't deny it and Zevran led him back to the kitchen. Theron generally ate with Alistair and the king's other advisors, but Zevran had noticed he detested the mannerly, stuffy occasions. Rescuing him was a small kindness. As expected, the Dalish elf wolfed two bowls of soup, barely managing a quick acknowledgement to go with. He had the strangest eating habits. Zevran had first assumed that the other elf's build came from the same unavoidable sort of high activity and lack of nourishment responsible for his own rather flimsy body, but at least part of it was that Theron was just too busy scheming or fuming or just gazing into space to remember meals half the time.

Zevran had a bowl of his own, slightly amused at the soup's reception. Theron's honest enjoyment was a much better compliment than spoken flattery. Lucky they were both so prickly and evasive or they'd drive each other mad. "You have a taste for Antivan, I see."

Oddly enough, that hadn't been intentional, and he was so surprised to have made an unintentional innuendo it was almost like shame. Theron grinned, as always quite willing to match him for outrageous statements. "Always."

Might as well roll with it, then. "You'll have to treat me to a few Dalish tastes to level the playing field."

"Yup." It was odd for the other elf to not try to match him for witty repertoire, just as that light in his eyes and his solid hand on Zevran's was odd. But hardly unwelcome. Theron whistled for Cou'ghi as he half dragged Zevron from the wooden kitchen bench where they'd been eating. More and more pleasant. Theron often took initiative, but not usually so forcefully.

He yanked Zevran to his feet and strode out of the kitchen. Normally, Zevran might have objected to being manhandled thusly. _He_ was the one who did the ravishing, damn it. But there was something thrilling in seeing Theron tear his clothes off with his eyes, to being dragged to bed by a strong man with fire in his gaze. They hadn't had any proper time together since before the Blight ended. It was… intriguing to see a fierce, wild creature in his sweet little faun.

"I assure you, you need not pull quite so hard. I am perfectly willing." Zevran took a few long strides to catch up. Interesting as Theron's sudden hunger was, he was _not_ a passive partner.

"Shh." Zevran thought he was being pulled into a hug, but Theron's arm moved too fast, held too tight, and suddenly there was a hand over his mouth as they spun around a corner. Theron hissed straight into his ear. "New maid listening too closely. Knife in her belt wasn't for cabbages."

Zevran cursed himself for not noticing. He was, admittedly, an assassin and not a spy and Theron was really just distressingly clever. He cursed himself doubly for arousal that refused to dissipate just because their lives might be in danger. Theron's knack for acting could be infuriating. And had that all been an act? Because if his lover wanted to pounce on him and haul him to bed with a growl, Zevran was pretty sure he'd be interested.

He nodded firmly, both to show he understood and to clear his head a little. Theron let him go and both elves separated, melting into the shadows. About a minute later, the young woman darted by, looking perfectly casual. She did have a distinctly athletic stride, though, her long skirts thrown about strangely by her long, solid paces. Thank heaven for Theron's irksomely sharp mind. Zevran didn't think he'd have noticed anything wrong until she pulled a blade on him.

Zevran looked to Theron and the other elf nodded just the very slightest bit, only his eyes moving. They took off after the girl together, Theron moving barely behind her and Zevran bringing up the rear, hand on one of his concealed knives. Theron was at least properly armed after his day out in the city, if only with one of those awkward ceremonial blades the nobles wore.

It only took a few moments to determine pretty clearly where the woman was going. Sure, there were a lot of nobles who lived on the upper floors, but she didn't even glance at any doors they passed. Unless one knew the castle very, very well, those identical rooms and corridors warranted some little examination. The king's quarters, however, were most distinctive. No mistaking those, and if you just kept going up, you'd find them.

Zevran could tell Theron wanted to take the girl now, when it was safe, but Zevran had experience with the apprehension of assassins. Admittedly, from the wrong side. They had to be very sure of the woman's target, for one. There was always the chance that she'd done excellent reconnaissance or even that she was just scouting now. If that was the case, they could spy on the spy. Theron would find a way to make that splendidly useful.

Theron gave another tiny nod at that, but she stopped at Alistair's door a moment later. The woman pulled a long, thin knife of an odd design from within her skirts, and the two elves pounced.

The scuffle was brief and messy. She aimed the knife at Theron and Zevran thanked the maker his lover was so fast on his feet. Zevran was even faster and a quick, sharp kick to the knee toppled the woman. He was sitting on her by the time Alistair and his guard got the door open.

He looked from Zevran, straddling her waist with her arms twisted back, to Theron, hand wrapped in her hair and her own knife to her throat. The woman, by comparison, was young, pretty, quite lacking tattoos and scars… Quite a splendid tableau. Alistair took a deep breath and sighed tragically. "I hope you two have a really, _really_ good explanation for what I'm seeing."

"We brought you a present?" Theron offered. Alistair didn't look amused, but Zevran appreciated it. "This matches the knife the assassin Sten cut in half was carrying." He straightened, bracing his boot on the girl's neck as he handed the dagger, hilt first, to Alistair.

"Oh, excellent. This day gets better and better." Zevran was irrationally annoyed to find the king knew about the attempt on Theron. Shouldn't he be first? But perhaps he'd heard secondhand.

"Not even a thank you?" Theron tried to look wounded. It didn't suit him. "Two in one day. And obviously working for the same force. So that's interesting."

"Very." Zevran realized what had been bothering him. He wished Theron had mentioned the peculiar dagger design, but he wouldn't have known to. "Recognizable weapons are not the purview of sensible assassins. Crow daggers are of excellent design, but also readily available. Most people assume that the style was simply copied, but it was in fact intentionally leaked as a smokescreen." Zevran had had to figure that out on his own, but the wisdom behind it was clear. Alistair was blinking a little vaguely, but Theron was attentive. He could probably translate back to Gray Warden for the king's benefit.

"You'll have to help us along with this, Zevran. And maybe you should get off of her while you do so?" Theron smiled helpfully, nodding to the several guards who had assembled following the commotion. Zevran assented, making sure the woman was in hand before he released her. He had any Antivan's studied, theoretical respect for delicate females, but he was also a Crow, and knew many women as dangerous as any male operative. This one was deadly silent now, glowering at him viciously. He didn't want to make her angrier.

He dusted himself off theatrically to make them wait. "As I was saying, a calling card is an excellent thing for making a point, but not recommended if one wishes to preserve plausible deniability. Especially outside Antiva, where high profile assassinations barely register as out of the ordinary. And these knives are most distinct. Blackened steel, thin blades, and even this… runic symbol. I do not recognize it, but these are assassins who wish their work to be known."

"And how is this different from the Crows?" Alistair looked like he just wanted to go to bed. Good of him to try and pay attention.

"Depends on the situation, of course. Sometimes an assassination is meant to be noticed and credit is meant to be taken. That may be the intention of this lovely lady." Zevran bowed to her. She spat at him. "So this is one possibility. And ending the career of the king and his right hand in a day would certainly be a point. However, I doubt this to be the case. Neither of these assassins has been especially skilled." She actually growled at him. Odd sound. Cou'ghi growled back. "Which could be a warning shot, perhaps? Or the other possibility is that we are dealing with an order of fanatics. Such a faction arose within the Crows once, before my time. One who spends too much time with death may very well become fixated. Cults arise. What I suspect is that one such is targeting you."

"Oh, splendid. That's fantastic, Zevran. Thank you for making my day brighter." Alistair covered his face in his hands. "Take her to the dungeon. And… And double the guard. Around and inside the castle. I want at least two guards on Theron's room and… Well, I suppose you'll be there, Zevran. But two, nonetheless. And that's all I'm good for today, I'm afraid."

Theron sighed. "We still have a window, Alistair. And I doubt I'll get much sleep tonight, so why don't we just—"

"No." Theron looked surprised. Zevran had never heard Alistair tell the elf off before. Well, he deserved it. "You've been alternately sulking and running yourself ragged since the end of the battle. Honestly, you look worse than you did while we were actually fighting Darkspawn every ten minutes. Go to bed. And… That is an order." He crossed his arms and tried to look kingly. Zevran thought he was getting better at it.

Theron seemed to want to argue, but Zevran agreed with Alistair too much to let him. He rested his hand against the other elf's softly, turning a bit so it wasn't visible to the king, the prisoner, and the guards. "You are going the right way to be useless now. To bed with you." He shot a look at Alistair quickly and grinned. "And bring me with?"

That convinced him. "The girl is in hand. We'll deal with this in the morning, then." Theron took a long look at the prisoner and sighed. "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams, and a pleasanter morning." Alistair turned to talk quickly with the guards and then returned to his room.

Theron sighed and, once he saw that the hallway was clear again, hooked his arm in Zevran's. "You're wicked."

"I am perfectly excellent and morally upright. You, on the other hand, are a tease." Zevran stuck his nose in the air. "While I understand your motivations, you could certainly have gotten me quickly out of the kitchen without getting my hopes up so."

"I wanted to be expedient." Theron had the decency to look sheepish. "And maybe I wanted to see if it would work."

"And maybe you are utterly incorrigible." Zevran sniffed. "If you weren't so decidedly handsome I would leave you alone in a cold bed."

"Cou'ghi would sleep with me."

"Spare me! The grisly details are outside even my interest." Theron poked Zevran with his elbow as they approached their room. A guard was already coming up.

Zevran nodded to the poor woman, hoping she'd be horribly annoyed by the noise from their bedroom. Theron had been too tired or stressed to pay him much more mind than a kiss or two. Funny, the Dalish elf hadn't been the least bit overwhelmed by hordes of terrifying monsters, but the pressures of court were straining him terribly.

He needn't have worried. As soon as the door was firmly closed behind them, Theron pushed him against the wall and kissed until they were both breathless. He stepped back with a funny, secret smile.

"So… what happened to your hair?"

"What, you don't like my experiment? I am merely exploring my options. You don't like me brunette?"

"Well, I do appreciate the usual contrast with your complexion." Theron's hand was on his cheek. Zevran was glad for his studied self control. Those tender little gestures made him a bit weak at the knees, and he didn't need to feed the other elf's ego too much. "Is your ear also part of the experiment?"

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to be quiet so I can undress you in peace?"

"…That is the only question that might have shut me up."

"It's not working very well, is it?" Theron answered by leaning in and biting gently at his ink-stained earlobe and Zevran's sarcasm descended into a soft moan. Theron was almost too familiar with his weak points. He reached backward, dragging the other elf along as he moved to the bed. The second he touched the mattress he dragged the Warden down with him, growling a possessive declaration in Antivan.

Somehow, the word "love" didn't make him squirm quite so much in his native tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning dawned bright, hot by Theron's estimation and chilly by Zevran's. Neither of them was really able to sleep in. Theron's instincts still dwelt in the woods and wilds and didn't let him sleep past prime hunting hours. Zevran simply slept lightly as a cat, unable to even keep his eyes closed against the sound of bustling servants moving about. They watched the sunrise together in silence, half dozing in each other's arms in the otherworldly quiet and silvery light. Such moments had to be rare or they wouldn't be so precious, but Zevran still suppressed a sigh when the harsher daylight burned away their stolen interval of peace.

Theron tidied up in a disgustingly cold bowl of water, a habit from his days of bathing in mountain streams while tracking deer, no doubt. Zevran stayed curled up in bed. He couldn't sleep, but he could luxuriate. Despite the pressing matter of the assassins, no one would bother them until breakfast time.

He was always more willing to dote and cuddle when they were perfectly alone, and Zevran directed his most sultry gaze at Theron. Normally the other elf would get dressed and go practice shooting before the yard filled up, but he grinned and fell back into bed instead. Zevran hoped Theron needed this as much as he did, had missed him the last little while. He'd certainly _been_ missed.

"So it looks as though we will have to remain here for some time longer." Zevran began to work his fingers into the tight knots that were always waiting in Theron's back. They'd gotten worse in the few days it had been since Zevran had worked his magic. "Our dear Alistair is in over his head."

Theron grunted, practically melting under Zevran's hands for the moment. "Mmph? Oh… Yes. Yes, that's true. Damn."

"We will need to talk him into acquiring a food-taster. That should have been done in any case. I nominate you." Yes, it was hard to get a coherent word out of his lover when he did this, but that helpless look in Theron's eyes and the throaty little groans made it too much fun to stop.

"I disagree. You've—oh, that's good—forgotten more about poisons than I'll ever know."

"I consider you an able student. Tell me, how do you hold your shoulders, exactly, that this happens? I may as well be massaging elf-shaped bricks." Zevran had a feeling he'd end up being the lucky soul to tell the king to imperil an innocent citizen to protect his own interests. And then there'd be the Alistair puppy eyes and a nobly inspired but naïve rant, and Zevran, as ever, would be the villain. But at least Alistair would remain alive. One assassin in the kitchen already was a bad sign. "Ah well. We shall weather this storm as ably as any other. Do you still intend to leave?" He was suddenly very worried the answer would be no.

"I certainly do. As soon as we can walk away and not leave the country to fall ap… apart…" Theron looked back with his gray eyes dark and soft. "You are a god among men. Never change." Zevran grinned cockily back, his smile softening as Theron turned around again so he could work. Never one to keep his mouth closed, he kept babbling. "I thought we might go and visit my native band of rovers-no-more, first thing."

"Oh." Zevran wished he could be more enthusiastic about that. His feelings about meeting Theron's clan were mixed to say the least. Their brief time among Zathrien's band and his own ill-fated and adolescent attempt to flee the Crows and be a free elf both made the prospect unappealing, but Zevran couldn't pretend not to be drawn (just a little) to his mother's people. And his lover's. Zevran knew he was no longer a Crow, but he hadn't found what he was instead, and a home among the Dalish with Theron was a sweet dream.

But he knew that wouldn't solve everything. Wouldn't solve _anything_. He was no more one of them than he was human. He'd seen the looks they gave him, flat-ears to them, an ancestral traitor to be pitied more than reviled. The Antivan couldn't shake the suspicion that Theron had tolerated him at first only because they were both outcasts of a kind. The lore was a tangled, inscrutable mess to him. He couldn't speak the language they so venerated, his ears incapable of following the tuneful rises and falls and the lilting softness of the mostly forgotten tongue. Zevran had played to his strengths so long he had forgotten how to deal with a challenge of this sort, and it was incredibly frustrating not to be able to repeat back the snatches of poetry and endearments Theron whispered to him at night.

Seeming to guess at his thoughts, Theron went on. "It'd be up to you how long we stayed."

"As long as you wish to." Knowing the choice was his made it easy to hand it back to Theron. He loved seeing the man smile, and his devotion to his people was clear. Zevran only wished he had someone to give that kind of loyalty. "You always want to know what I see in the Dalish. What of you? Tell me what it is like to live with your people."

Theron looked back again and leaned against the other elf with a smile. "It… It's life, Zevran. It has its beauties and tragedies. Tearing through the woods in the cool green light with your Lethallin? Studying the old tales under the keeper and singing with our ancestors' voices beside the fire? That much is glorious. But subsistence hunting is no easy way to live. Every winter we bury many that should have seen spring and babies and young children die as often as they live. A human raid took my mother and a fever my father, both when I was young. But it was my life, and I would never have left it had Duncan not conscripted me. Even when he told me Wardens or Death, I practically needed to be dragged away in chains. That says something, doesn't it? And with land of our own, things will get better."

Zevran listened quietly. The grisly and miserable elements of an alienage brothel seemed far worse than a few deaths from cold, and there had been no wild hunts and noble tales for him. The trouble with his attempt to join the Dalish that ill-fated day was Zevran, not the clans. He just wasn't meant for it. "Glorious. Yes, the word is fitting." Hearing his voice turn low and too serious, he quipped, "Would that my mother had left me more of the Dalish than her gloves, eh?" He pushed Theron forward again, hands working at the back of his neck now.

"And your name," Theron offered after a groan.

Zevran paused. "My name?"

"It took me a week to puzzle out what you were saying. Elvish sounds very strange through an Antivan accent." Theron rolled his shoulders appreciatively. "Zaefron is a common enough name, though. I know of at least two others."

"You'll have to indulge me. I'm entirely lost. Zaefron?" Zevran was oddly disturbed.

Theron sounded confused, though he didn't manage to turn around. Zevran held him in place, tired of having to find the knots he was working on all over again. "Am I wrong? All this time I've been assuming… Is Zevran an Antivan name, then?"

Actually, he'd never even heard of another Zevran, though he'd never thought it odd before. But his mother hadn't lived long enough to name him.

He realized suddenly that he didn't know that. He remembered a death in childbirth, but of course it wasn't hers. One of the kinder women in the brothel had been expecting. Kairaeda, if he remembered correctly. She'd promised to let Zevran call the baby a little brother or sister, and he'd sneaked into the birthing room to greet his new compatriot. He'd been only four years old, and when she'd hemorrhaged to death, shrieking curses at the Maker, the ensuing nightmares had wound her death together with his mother's in his mind. Nobody had ever told him anything but that she had died when he was born. He'd just assumed that such a painful, ignoble death had come for her. It fit with everything else he knew of the poor woman.

But perhaps not. A new image came to him, a lady with light hair and dark skin, beaten but unbowed, cradling a child and whispering a name that tied the baby she wouldn't be able to raise back to her home and people. The difference it made was striking. "You know, I don't believe it is." He tried to replicate the whispery name Theron had spoken and it _did_ come out almost like _Zevran_. It would make perfect sense for the elves of an Antivan alienage to trip over the Dalish name just as he did.

"Lie on your stomach." Theron turned and made an inquisitive noise. Zevran pushed him back. He was suddenly in a most exuberant mood. "You heard me. Your spine needs a proper cracking. …What of Arainai? Can you twist that to a proper Dalish pronunciation?"

"No, I can't think of one. But that just means I haven't heard it before. I haven't been everywhere." Theron situated himself on the bed, grinning as Zevran straddled his waist. "For someone who looks like he'd blow away in a stray breeze, you're heavy. Isn't that likely her husband's name, though? He was, um…" Zevran could hear the wheels spinning as Theron searched for a polite term. "An alienage-dweller, wasn't he?"

"I suppose." Curses. Though that opened another line of optimistic thinking. He didn't think his mother had been in the brothel very long when he was born. It could be he really was the child of the Dalish maiden and the man she loved, not the poxy whore and a detestable client. And what a difference that would make, somehow. If only he could convince himself. "You are just full of useful observations."

"I try. Mmm. Your hands are indescribable." Theron groaned deeply as Zevran worked deep into the strained, sore spots on his lower back.

"Funny, I never tire of hearing all about how incredible I am. You should bring it up more often." Zevran pressed a kiss to the back of Theron's neck, pushing aside silky red hair to leave himself space to nibble. There was a puckered little scar there that he loved to nuzzle, left from a fall from a tree. Battle scars were more impressive, but the little ones told the true tale of a life. Theron squirmed deliciously beneath him and reached awkwardly around to rest a hand on Zevran's thigh.

"Hmm, well, you also make excellent soup and look surprisingly well with ink in your hair." He laughed a bit and craned his head around as far as he could. Zevran just caught his roguish smile. "You also clean up well."

"Hmm, I declare that you must explain that possibly backhanded compliment further." Zevran was pretty sure he could declare absolutely anything he wanted right now. This was probably evil, but undoubtedly fun.

"Um…" Theron was unintelligible for a moment as Zevran ground his palms into the other elf's back and worked his way upward. "Right. With the travel dust and bloodstains scrubbed away, you look…"

"Wholesome? Acceptable?" Zevran dug his fingers especially hard into Theron's shoulders, rough on purpose this time. He didn't care for this line of flattery all of a sudden, especially the attention it called to a certain irrationality in his thought process. If he cleaned up well, what exactly had been wrong with him before? And when had he turned into the unreasonable lady-love at the beginning of a play?

"I was going to say cute. Also a lot younger."

Zevran was glad he didn't really blush. "Oh. Well. What would it take to make you pretend I did not just leap wholeheartedly to ridiculous conclusions?"

"Bribery."

"Have I mentioned how I admire your refreshing bluntness?" Zevran twisted his fingers up in Theron's hair, running fingernails that had gotten a bit long lately over the other elf's scalp. Theron practically purred. This made him even more pliable than massage. "I'm curious now. How old did you imagine I am?"

Theron paused, partly due to the soft, skillful fingers in his hair, partly because that really had to be a loaded question. "…Thirty?"

"I'm twenty-four, you rotten blaggard!" Zevran was pretty sure that was principally a compliment to his experience, and it was notoriously hard to tell an elf's age. Though they certainly didn't live any longer than humans (no one had mentioned the slow increase in Dalish lifespans to Zevran), they tended to age a bit better. "I'm afraid I must demand satisfaction for that insult."

"Did you just challenge me to a duel?"

"Yes, and you'll notice I did it while I'm already sitting on top of you. It is not a step I would otherwise take, even if it _is_ safe to say I am twice the swordsman you are." He kissed the back of Theron's neck again. "Or you could just concede victory. I'll demand having my way with you as my prize, be forewarned."

"Funny, I was going to demand the same thing if I'd won." Theron tried to roll over, but he didn't quite manage to push Zevran off. The Antivan decided to take the spill anyway and landed next to him on the bed, laughing as Theron pulled him in tight.

"And I thought I'd exhausted you last night. I'll have to do better, eh?" Zevran didn't manage another remark before those strong hands he loved had him pinned to the bed. Not willing to cede control, he turned away from Theron's kiss to nibble at the other elf's neck, and not particularly gently.

Theron actually moaned. Zevran found that habit of his fascinating. For himself, he had to be either quite overwhelmed or taken utterly off guard to make sounds like that. The assassin was used to catching little moments of pleasure in secret darkness, trying hard not to catch anyone's attention, and his former paramours had generally been just as intent on anonymity and easy escape. It was charming that Theron was so demonstrative.

And yet so oddly modest, somehow. Theron tugged the blanket over the two of them, presumably so any birds that passed their window wouldn't catch an inadvertent glimpse, and practically attacked Zevran's ear. Every elf was a bit sensitive there, but Zevran's earlobe was practically an off switch, rendering him as helpless as head scritches did Theron. Cheater.

Zevran pulled Theron's mouth to his, not even minding that the other elf had somehow wound up on top of him. He thought he might really learn to like this forceful streak his once timid recent virgin was developing. This was shaping up to be a really fantastic morning.

And then there was a knock on the door. Theron actually growled. If Zevran hadn't been sure Cou'ghi had already been let out for his predawn gambol, he'd have checked for the dog under the bed. "Bugger off!"

"I was hoping to catch you on the way to breakfast. Sorry, were you not up y— Oh. Ohhhh… I interrupted something I really wish I hadn't didn't I?"

Theron's face shifted from murderous to fond irritation, his eyes met Zevran's, and they both burst out laughing. Who could help it, picturing Alistair's face out in the hall? Eventually, the man would get it through his head that a king sent servants to demand his underlings' presence instead of wandering down himself like he still lived in the Templar barracks. Then they could be horribly mean to hapless footmen, but until then, they just had to endure. "Let me find something to put on."

"I… I could just leave, you know… I… wouldn't mind?" The king's voice shuddered a little. Zevran had to wonder what about them horrified him so. Probably just his general prudishness.

"Leaving the king standing on my threshold seems like bad policy." Theron kissed Zevran's forehead with a sweetness that matched his earlier passion and threw on a dressing gown that Zevran quite liked on him. Most of the finery heaped on his lover was annoying, but the rich blue robbed Theron's complexion of color and made his eyes and hair glow like a thunderstorm rolling in on a sunset. The garment also seemed designed for easy access, something he hadn't been able to test yet.

Theron opened the door with a most sardonic smile. "And good morning, Your Majesty."

"Um, sorry. But seems like I might as well just, um, let you both know why I came, then. Can't really get… any worse…" Alistair was staring over Theron's shoulder as though hypnotized, refusing to make eye contact, especially with Zevran, who was stretched out with the blanket barely covering him decently and glaring at the king. "I, um—Could you pull up your collar, there?"

"Huh?" Theron tried to look down, but of course there was no angle where he could see the coin-sized love bite Zevran had left on his neck. One little drawback of porcelain-hued skin. Actually, Theron usually had at least one such badge of ownership, but Zevran usually hid them where his hair would cover. He hadn't felt like it today. Theron at least caught on to what Alistair wanted him to do, if not why, and tugged the cloth up.

Zevran sat up slowly, eyes locked on his Theron. Alistair was alone (idiot) and more irritating by the moment. He had clearly earned the privilege of being made as uncomfortable as humanly possible. Zevran leaned against the wall, posing in that probably drugged, oddly contorted way ravished mythological maidens in Antivan paintings did. "Well, I suppose we are naught but your humble servants, and even our most treasured pleasures must await your whim?"

"I'm going to pretend you're not there. Well, no, that won't work, it's actually you I needed to talk to…" Alistair seemed to screw up his courage. "Could I maybe convince you to put on clothes?"

"Feh, you Fereldens. I'll have you know you're experiencing a great honor right now. I am so _terribly_ pretty." As it happened, Zevran hadn't been given a dressing gown. "I'll offend your sensibilities much more than now if I have to get up to do so, however. And I might note that the tunic I'd been wearing has ink stains all over it now."

"Yes. Um… I'll see you at breakfast, then! Right. Leaving now." The door slammed quickly and both elves laughed again.

"You're incorrigible. And I love it." Theron sighed, opening their shared wardrobe. Zevran wasn't quite done yet.

"I'm amazing. What can I say? And more importantly, do you think you could fit in time to finish ravishing me before we go and have biscuits and coffee with the gentry?" Zevran was delighted to hear a groan of despair from down the hall. Grinning, he hurried to the door, opened it a crack, and shouted, "Any Antivan physician will tell you there's nothing like morning sex for both the digestion and temperament!"

Alistair apparently had the sense to properly flee then. Theron wrapped his arms around Zevran and kissed him hard.

He sighed when he had to come up for air. "Well, apparently the real way to seduce me is to drive Alistair crazy…"

"If that's true, my innate attractiveness must have just doubled." Zevran didn't want to let go, and not _just_ because he thought he might still be able to drag Theron back to bed. He closed his eyes for a long moment, breathing the warm scent of his lover's hair. "But… we had better go to breakfast. The king does wish it, and I am trying not to spoil my exploration of life as a lawful citizen just yet."

"Let's find you a tunic without ink. I'm sure one of the ones I've been given will fit you." Zevran rolled his eyes at Theron's attempt to make being lavished with gifts sound onerous. Not to mention that singular thick-headedness of the usually clever Warden at not mentioning that possibility before.

He forgot his annoyance as Theron laced up the back of the tunic. It was deep blue (who was it, exactly, paying enough attention to Theron to notice how nicely the color complimented the elf, and why did Zevran want to find and punch that individual?), soft as a summer breeze, and actually fit. "Are we going to match, henceforth?"

"Well, if Alistair can't be talked out of saddling me with a title, I understand a coat of arms and livery would come with." Theron made a face. Zevran wanted to say—pithily—that he couldn't fathom Theron's aversion to the outrageous idea of riches and comfort, but he did understand. An elf in a mansion just didn't make sense, and what would the Dalish or the Alienage elves say? Nothing kind, and that mattered to Theron. "And if that does come about, I hope you'd wear my colors."

He turned away to find his own clothes, looking a bit embarrassed. Zevran surprised himself by reaching over to touch the little jeweled hoop in Theron's ear. He belied the soft touch with a roguish grin. "Well, you must insist upon blue. It looks so very well on you. Never mind that it makes me look like a holiday decoration."

"Well, there need to be at least two colors, you know. I was considering perhaps a very deep bronze for the second…" Theron's fingers were on Zevran's cheek and their eyes locked.

Zevran coughed. "You're dressed. We'd best be off, yes?" He liked whatever had gotten into them this morning. Theron was _doting_ on him for lack of a better word. A bit overwhelming, though. He covered the other elf's hand with his and then headed to the door.

Walking side by side always interested Zevran, giving him something to enjoy while they stayed at least a handbreadth apart. He'd learned very young to read everything he could in a person's movements. Theron always made long strides, practically strutting when he was in a good mood and stalking about like an angry cat when annoyed. Zevran's movements, by comparison, were economical and measured, always poised for a burst of speed or an emergency dodge. The ranger and the assassin were a peculiar pair.

It wasn't far to Alistair's quarters, but Theron still made conversation. "So how long do you suppose it'll be before we see Leliana again?"

"Funnily enough, I miss her, too."

"Well, I'm sure she misses you. I think she had quite the little crush on you." Theron smirked.

Zevran decided not to explain the obvious to him, merely reflecting how odd it was that someone so too-clever-for-his-own-good could be so thick. "And I never thought I would know the very particular ache of not discussing shoes and adorable bunny rabbits." Zevran shrugged. "How soon might we expect her return, after all? Orlais is a considerable distance. But fret not. It cannot be too long an age before we turn to hear 'Allo, my dear friends. I 'ave returned from my summary execution of zee woman 'oo taught me to summarily execute people. 'Ow do you like zese splendid satin slippers? I find zat zey compliment my ladylike ankles and zee color sets off my complexion.'"

"…You do Orlesian very poorly."

"You think? Well, I never was destined for the stage." Before he could continue prattling, Alistair came out to meet them. He had a slightly hunted look and it was clear they'd been sought out at least in part to save him from a formal meal with advisors or supplicants or diplomats.

"Ah, there you two are." The king didn't look like he'd slept very well, now that Zevran looked at him. As Alistair could usually sleep through an earthquake, either he had been very shaken up by that assassin or everyone else had insisted he be. "So the size of it is that the woman you two caught last night doesn't seem to speak Ferelden."

"Strange." Theron frowned. "Someone they're working with must. I don't think the woman who slugged me yesterday had ever been out of Denerim, never mind the country."

"Right, well, we can't ask your attacker. Pity Sten was so… enthusiastic." Alistair sighed. "She seems to understand, um, a few things. Insults, mostly. But she's mostly only opened her mouth to scream what sound like obscenities, it seems they're all in Antivan."

"So my services are desired? It is pleasant to be of use. Quite a change of pace." Zevran looked as disinterested as he could. He actually liked the idea. Sure, the skill he'd been sought out for was speaking his own language, but he would get to contribute _something_. "Do you want me to interrogate her myself, or simply act as a linguistic conduit?"

"Um… Maker's Breath, that's an unsavory decision. I managed not to have to oversee any interrogations back with the Templars, you know. Being a novice. Not looking forward to that…" Alistair turned his eyes toward heaven, apparently seeking a moment's strength. "I wouldn't ask you, but the only translator Fort Drakon seems to have on staff is about nineteen and very… Sweet? Naïve? Cheerful?"

Theron cocked an eyebrow. He had exceedingly arched eyebrows, a darker red than the rest of his hair, and they were a dangerous weapon when he meant them to be. "Really? When's the wedding?"

"You're as impossible as your… Your…" Alistair seemed unable to put a name to whatever it was he meant. Zevran would have begun to supply suggestions, only some of them blush-inducing, but Alistair opened the door to the modest (the table only seated twelve and the hangings on the walls were only so extensive) dining room.

And only then did Zevran realize that it was rather odd that a man who'd never left Ferelden with advisors nearly as insular had recognized spoken Antivan, the tongue of a rather insignificant and distant land. Because then he saw who must have told the king what language the young assassin had chosen to curse him.

Judiciously, Zevran ducked to the side, but unfortunately, he stepped behind Theron, not Alistair. Roughly as scrawny as himself, the elf did nothing to conceal him.

Zevran cursed himself for a fool, not paying any mind to the emissaries from various enclaves of Grey Wardens throughout Thedas. Of course Antiva would send a few eventually. And of course Bajazad would be among them.

Antiva was a land that loved tradition. Ceremony and decadent, pointless splendor was the order of any day. The Grey Wardens, as such, had not fared nearly so badly in Antiva as Ferelden between Blights. The populace loved hating spoiled, tradition-steeped figureheads, after all. The Wardens were as common a fate for younger sons and bastards as private guard forces or the Templars. And as public figures who managed to garner only what real influence they gained themselves, they inevitably were Crow targets. Individually, of course, and such attacks were planned carefully, enacted at night, and generally involved several Crows, nothing like Zevran's suicide mission. On the Wardens' side, their complex code of honor meant they seldom availed themselves of the assassins' services.

So most Antivan Wardens would have been unhappy to spot a Crow. And Zevran's ill-considered facial tattoos, moderate notoriety, and membership in a very active Crow cell made him easy to spot for anyone who kept track of such criminal elements.

Bajazad had a few particular reasons to not care for the elf. Zevran had run afoul of the young noble once, before he'd joined the Wardens, when Bajazad had discovered a sixteen-year-old elf entangled most compromisingly with his mother. Zevran maintained that particular bad idea hadn't been his fault. He'd always had a weakness for older women. Fate had thrown them at each other several times subsequently, ugly scars on each of them testimony to an ongoing battle. This was the sort of thing that had happened to Zevran all the time, but he realized now, trying to hide behind his lover, that what had been an occasionally amusing nuisance in his old life was anathema in his new one. He was _not_ getting into a fight now in front of Theron and Alistair. Pretending he'd dodged out of sight to pick an imaginary spot of lint off the carpet, he stepped back into view.

This was a lovely opportunity to mess with an unpleasant individual's head. It didn't hurt all that much when the solid man leapt out of his chair and slammed Zevran into a wall. He gave Bajazad his most disarming smile. "I take it my name was not publicized quite as extensively as those of my esteemed companions?"

Though Zevran made a point of speaking Ferelden, Bajazad hissed back at him in achingly formal tones of an Antivan noble. _"You revolting little insect, isn't this excellent proof that the bumpkin king will let just anyone though these doors? I never thought I'd see you out in daylight without a noose around that skinny neck. Shall I remedy that?"_

Alistair seemed to have put Theron in a headlock to keep him from lunging at the Antivan Warden. "Zevran, um, this is just for my future reference. Is there anyone in Thedas I dare introduce you to? You know, that doesn't want to kill you or anything."

"Well, I know of a very sweet lady pirate… Though she might slide a knife between my ribs as well, if she had nothing better to do." Zevran was having a little trouble breathing. It was hard to not be intimidated by the murderous glare he was getting, and from a man who'd managed to fit about twice Zevran's weight in muscle onto his frame. Still, he refused to be rattled. He directed his smile particularly at Theron. He didn't think he'd ever seen quite that spark of anger in the man's eyes before, and while touching, he wouldn't bet a green copper on his lover's chances against Bajazad in a reasonably fair fight.

Bajazad's face sharpened, if that were possible, and he wrapped a large hand around Zevran's neck. "Your… Highness, may I ask why this… creature is walking free in your halls?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess I kind of like him." Alistair was giving Bajazad rather the same sort of glare he'd once reserved for Morrigan. Zevran approved his taste. "He's saved my life a few times, dab hand in the kitchen, regularly beds my best friend…" He released Theron, still fuming, only after whacking the side of his head hard enough to daze the slight elf. Probably by accident.

"You are _excessively_ kind, Your Majesty," Zevran managed to croak. He couldn't remember particular instances of saving Alistair's life, but considering all the times they'd been in the thick of a fight together, it had no doubt happened, just as Alistair had certainly saved him. Incidental when one had comrades in arms. The compliment to his cooking, however, he could gladly take to heart, and whenever Alistair referred to his relationship with Theron without dithering, it seemed like a good sign.

"And are you aware of the innumerable criminal and depraved acts for which anyone with a shred of honor should be burning him at the nearest stake?" Bajazad actually looked to be shaking with anger, and Zevran was beginning to suspect he'd have to either react in kind or get his nose broken.

"I actually believe I could number them," Theron said softly, his voice very flat and measured. Zevran was a bit frightened to see such coldness in the usually gentle elf's eyes, but far more shocked to realize that Theron spoke the truth. All his sins had been laid bare, at least to Theron, and each examined, understood, and forgiven. "And every one pardoned in light of his aid in ending the Blight."

He could be so very versatile. Under that stony gaze, Bajazad let go of Zevran with a low curse, taking a step back. Theron wound his arm around Zevran's waist protectively. Though he'd normally have shied from such a public display, even to make a point, Zevran found his heart to be fluttering a little oddly.

"So, reunions complete, shall we break our fast?" He smiled at Bajazad again. Knowing he had the king on his side left him what could only be called elated, and he was sure the little snot wouldn't dare another physical attack. For his sunny taunt he received an Antivan invective against elves far nastier than "knife-ears." He declined to translate, letting the insult roll off. Despite Theron rekindling his interest in his ancestry, his pride could still readily withstand insults against his blood. After all, being born an elf was one thing gone wrong with his life that wasn't at all his fault.

"So this lady, our angry little snake in a cage, is to be interrogated. My question remains, Your Majesty." Zevran had asked Arl Eamon once what the proper modes of address were and made a point of referring to Alistair as respectfully as Ferelden made possible. "Is that duty to be mine?"

"No. I don't think so, no. But if you'll translate, I'm sure we'll have much better luck." Alistair shot a glare at Bajazad. Theron was still fuming. Zevran stepped on his foot under the table while he served his lover an extra dollop of blackcurrant jam on his toast. He couldn't guess what would happen should this conflict escalate, and until he knew more, he wouldn't let it.

Breakfast became something of a monologue, Alistair telling the two of them about his little nephews' coming addition to the castle staff. He was very pleased with the children, who Zevran couldn't help but imagine as towheaded, round-cheeked cherubs, despite their sour, gaunt mother. Little Alistairs, no doubt. He wondered how often they'd actually be about. Zevran didn't dislike children, but he never knew how to handle himself around them. He'd never really had the chance to be one himself, so a happy child was beyond his experience, while a tormented, miserable one made him think back to times that should be forgotten.

But at least he could let the king's voice, soothing in its familiarity, wash over him, feel Theron relax beside him, and enjoy all the butter and jam he wanted. Bajazad just had to sit there and stew, which felt like its own triumph.

Alistair and Theron both had appearances to make before the increasing number of Grey Wardens assembling to discuss the Blight and its aftermath. Zevran usually found himself annoyed watching his lover run off to ply the crowds for another day they didn't spend running off together, but at least today the cloud bore a silver lining. Bajazad was going with them, and Zevran had something to contribute.

He had no trouble finding his way down to the dungeons. Zevran had found his way through many palaces, and there were only so many ways to construct a fortress so it would still be reasonably comfortable and ostentatious. He met Arl Eamon and two dungeon guards outside the woman's cell.

Zevran had never served as a translator. The Crows often travelled abroad, of course, but he wasn't so naturally gifted at languages that he'd be chosen on the weight of such a consideration. His Ferelden was only as good as it was thanks to Taliesin, and beyond that he could only manage a handful of Orlesian phrases in addition to his native Antivan.

He was a bit unsure, then, as he entered the dungeon. Zevran amused himself wondering if this cell might have held Theron and Alistair during their brief confinement. The woman was tied up, a reasonable precaution considering her likely training. Terribly uncomfortable, though. Zevran had spent days at a time shackled, and he sympathized despite himself. Her glare was venomous and dead; she put him in mind of a snake. Clearly a career assassin despite her young age. He felt he knew her already.

Zevran looked to the Arl as he leaned back against the wall. "Is there an etiquette set forth for this task? Shall I bother to translate all the nasty things she is bound to insinuate about your mother, for instance?"

"I think that's best. We will want the best possible record. I can assure you ahead of time that I won't take offense." He nodded deeply and turned his attention to the girl. "Tell her that her cooperation will result a lessening of sentence, and impress upon her the seriousness of the crime. Nothing short of execution can await an unrepentant regicide, even if the attempt is foreshortened."

Zevran had to take a long moment to translate the complex thought back to Antivan. He studied the girl as he debated. Her complexion was darker than his and her hair a deep, rich brown. She wouldn't be whistled at by sailors, but she was pretty enough. No visible tattoos, though he'd have liked to peak under her clothes. Only in pursuit of any marks of her order, however. Even had it not been for Theron, corpse-eyed murderesses were no longer his type.

One of his own questions was solved when she answered. He'd wondered how another group of assassins could possibly arise in Antiva without the Crows swallowing or quashing the ascent, but she wasn't Antivan. Her accent was quite heavy to his ear, though he wasn't surprised a Ferelden wouldn't notice or that a spoiled noble brat like Bajazad who'd probably spoken more Orlesian than Antivan would miss it entirely. Zevran relayed that information before his translation.

"She is from the Free Marches. Peasant stock, I would guess, as she has certainly not learned her Antivan fostering in a noble house or simpering at a merchant's stall. Ahem." Again he had to pause to formulate the most faithful rendition of her reply that he could. "She would rather fuck a manticore than tell you a thing."

The Arl sighed. "Ask her name?"

Zevran delivered the question, waited for a full minute of silence, and shrugged. They weren't going to get a thing from this young lady, not playing nice, and maybe not even with the persuasive powers of an iron maiden.

The Arl tried not to glare. "Who hired you?"

Zevran changed tactics, deciding to just parrot what each said, a conduit rather than a participant. "May everything that you treasure burn to ashes."

The Arl didn't yet seem discomposed. "Were you hired within Ferelden or outside?"

"I have seen the liver and lungs ripped from a living man's body, and his eyes remain open to see the steaming heap of viscera. I'll relish seeing it done to you." Zevran didn't even react to the image, but he was disturbed by the way she seemed to mean it.

"You must know something of your employer's motivation." Eamon's eyes narrowed a bit as he spoke.

"Choke on the eyeballs of ravished maidens, you misbegotten mistake of a slattern and her mule. I'm sorry, I think she meant me by that last one." Zevran shrugged apologetically. "That really sounded much neater in Antivan. The bit about the eyeballs, especially…" He trailed off as he noticed one of the guards looking a bit ill. "Sorry."

"You're doing your best." Zevran appreciated that the Arl gave him credit and resolved to stop enjoying this. "Did you understand who you were targeting?"

Zevran let her talk for quite a while before he relayed her response, going slowly to make sure he had most of it, at least. "May Darkspawn—I think she said Darkspawn, but it wasn't the Anitvan word—dance on the grave of your fool of a boy king, and when your children dangle from the walls around your cities, when your women lay torn apart from within, and…" Zevran noticed the look on the Arl's and the guards' faces and quieted. Not everyone had been raised by women whose years of whoredom had left them doubled over in pain and covered in sores. Not everyone had been brought to watch executions at seven. He envied them the capacity to be horrified by the cold-eyed girl.

The interrogation didn't get any better after that, and when Zevran tried to quietly soften her increasingly dark and nasty invectives, the Arl just grew more frustrated. He seemed to think that they were asking better questions when she was more vitriolic, but Zevran couldn't see any such correlation. From his perspective, she wasn't letting on a thing but her very active imagination and delight in frightening the upstanding nobleman.

The Arl dismissed Zevran in frustration in a little over an hour. The elf left gladly enough, but determined to return. The girl didn't frighten him the way she did the noble Arl and the chivalrous guards, but she was distinctly dangerous, and he seemed to have the best chance of extracting information.

Divested of his task, Zevran divided his day between aimless wandering of the grounds with Cou'ghi beside him, trying to read through the Elvish poem Theron had been trying to teach him, and talking the head cook through some basic guidelines to make poison harder to plant in the first place and easier to detect if it were present, as well as scolding her for letting the assassin slip in.

As he watched the sun set through a front window, Zevran had the flat, restless sensation that always came of a day he considered wasted. He didn't seem to have accomplished anything, even at the very simple tasks he'd set himself. He was, and the feeling was still rather foreign, worried, and that made it impossible to focus. One assassin cloven in two by a Qunari lunatic, one confined in the dungeon, but how many more were waiting?

Zevran deeply appreciated Cou'ghi for bolting out barking when he front gates opened. It gave him an excuse to run down to meet the returning king and Theron himself. He was relieved, haranguing himself for fretting all day, but as soon as he could see as well as hear them, he knew he hadn't been wrong.

They'd gone out in two carriages, but now they were on foot. The number of guards had doubled. Zevran forgot about pretending disinterest and raced alongside Cou'ghi, his natural speed letting him keep up with the dog. Luckily, the guards parted for him, or he'd probably have knocked into them.

Theron looked a little bit battered, his tunic torn, a cut over his nose and a bandage on his arm. Alistair was intact, but clearly rattled. Such paltry injuries wouldn't have concerned him any other time. He'd wrapped up far worse on both of them and kept fighting. But Zevran saw a lot more to fear in this new threat. Darkspawn might destroy every blade of grass on the ground, but they were so straightforward. The depths of wickedness in mortal hearts were far more labyrinthine and dark.

And that was why Zevran later justified wrapping his arms around Theron in a teeming crowd and refusing to let go for several heartbeats. He was afraid his bashful lover would shove him back, but Theron hugged back.

"What happened?" It would be sensible, of course, to wait until they were all inside. Zevran made the concession of falling into step beside them.

"A lot less exciting than you'd think, really," Alistair volunteered. "Would have been a lot worse, though. The party today was at Ser Torith's, and he volunteered me a few extra honor guards, which I'm told I ought to accept, so we had a few too many for the one carriage. Theron was the one who thought of having him ride in my carriage and me in the spare."

"It was just prudence. Alistair's a much higher priority target."

"Sure, sure, but I'd never have thought of it." Alistair gave a self-depreciating smile and Zevran tried to repress a sneer in return. Of course Theron would happily sacrifice his own wellbeing for the king, or even just for his old friend Alistair, but Zevran didn't have to like it.

"The trap was ridiculously elaborate, really. No one with any sense would make a plan like that. Every step is one more thing to go wrong." Theron rolled his eyes. His fingers brushed Zevran's, his usual "unseen" gesture of affection. "It's amazing it got as far as it did, but some incendiary traps had been set up and most buried in the streets, and someone shot a flaming arrow straight in front of the horses. They panic, the carriage bucks, the traps go off, and the theory is the king and his entourage are a pillar of flame."

"…Yes, that's stupid. But it's theatrical, and from what we've seen of our friends, they do enjoy the show." Zevran considered. This incident shored up his theory that the assassins responsible were more ideological than business-minded. Such an attack had only moderate chance of success even if everything went off as planned, but made for a splendid message. "Neither of you seems burned."

"That's because this lunatic climbed out the window of the carriage a second before the massive gouts of flame started and cut a horse free to ride to freedom."

"I've learned to listen for that very particular noise." Theron shrugged.

Zevran carefully checked for any burns he might have missed anyway. "And you managed to stay on a horse?"

"Nope." Theron held up his arm and indicated the bandage. "Worst damage by far came from when it tossed me into a gutter."

"I just can't believe you'd never actually been on a horse." Alistair quailed under the disdainful glances he received from both elves. Ferelden was not a land known for equestrianism, and one had to be at least a noble bastard to have a hope of seeing one. And in Antiva, there were practically no horses at all, the land being extremely ill-suited to pasture. "…But, considering that's the case, you did very well. How did you calm it down?"

"Horses aren't that different from Halla. Well, aside from being a good deal less impressive." Zevran had to smile fondly. Theron had a special tone of voice for when he was being utterly jingoistic in his devotion to the Dalish. "Sitting astride an animal is just too strange a sensation, though… Anyway, that's as set as it will be. Let's go and find some dinner? Leaping from a burning carriage to a stupid looking animal's back gives me an appetite, it seems."

Zevran nodded indulgently, finding himself sticking close to Theron and Alistair both as they made their way to dinner. As plates of fish were set down, he decided this time was as good as any to give Alistair the full catalogue of reasons he needed a poison tester.

Alistair, predictably, refused. "You have yet to convince me that my life is any more important than that of any of my… my people." There he went, trying to be kingly again.

"I was entirely sure you'd say that, Your Majesty." Zevran sighed. "Which is why I will temporarily volunteer myself until a permanent fixture can be obtained." He enjoyed the stares from both of them, as well as the handful of other guests that Alistair was completely ignoring. "The notion of a poison tester as most see them is a foolish one. Many poisons are slow acting or require large doses. Your traditional tester may very well die hours later or experience nothing but a mild stomach ache while the target gasps out his last. One experienced with the deadly art, however, will know what's awry. Texture, taste, a sharpening or dulling of flavor, the presence of an herb known to mask the presence of a particular unwholesome solution… There are many signs, and I know of no poison that is truly impossible to detect. Those plants and creatures which produce venom do not do so simply to irritate, but to protect themselves, and some hint for the tongue is fair play. I'll also oversee meal preparation. All this, of course, only until you have secured a poison expert of your own, and Theron and I strike out."

Theron clamped a very strong hand on his shoulder. "And he will be _very_ careful." Zevran could tell he wanted to forbid it, but after that stunt switching carriages with the king, he clearly didn't dare.

Alistair blinked. "Well, yes, he'd better be. For all our sakes. I think Theron would tear the castle down around my ears if anything… Well. Thank you. And… I have no idea how to hire myself a poison… specialist. So if you have any ideas, I'd appreciate those, too."

"Indeed." Though he didn't know how much help he'd be there. What did he know of Ferelden assassins? He passed the meal mostly in silence thereafter, his ankle wrapped around Theron's under the table. Worrying apparently made him far more demonstrative, if not less shy.

Shy was the wrong word, of course. Zevran would flaunt a deep kiss or shameless grope in public if that were all it was. The strange hesitance came with putting his very real, terribly important feelings for Theron on display.

After spending the better part of an hour letting polite conversation wash over him while Theron and a few others whispered about increasing security for the king, Zevran got tired of feeling useless. He whispered to his lover that he was going to bed early and stormed down to the assassin's cell.

The two guards on hand saluted him, a very strange experience. He smiled at the younger, a green-eyed, petite girl who looked like she might be wearing her older brother's armor. "And how is our wildcat?" He refrained from claiming he'd been sent by anyone, assuming his presence earlier would make this visit seem legitimate.

"Screaming things no one understands, sir, or silent as the grave, by turns. Wildcat's right, sir. Nasty little caged animal."

The honorific "sir" almost made him laugh. "Oh, I wouldn't call her an animal. That might lead to a very grave underestimation. Animals cannot reason, nor can they hate. Do not mistake the lady for anything so simple as an animal." Zevran smiled as reassuringly as he knew how, which wasn't very. So odd, that the young guards would implicitly trust the murderer on the free side of the bars while living in terror of the one confined.

At his request they backed away a bit. Zevran didn't enter the cell. He didn't need to. He spoke with a stage whisper, slow and deliberate on the assumption that her Antivan comprehension was as poor as her spoken communication.

"_Hello, little wildcat. No, I am not here for information. Not just now. I am here to make sure you understand. You may shriek those oh-so-inventive insults all you like, of course. But I advise against it. I will only say this once, and you will lament what you miss. And don't you bother glaring at me, either. You cannot frighten me the way you do good, upstanding men like Eamon. The nightmares you've no doubt given him are no news to me. There are no depths you have known, young monster, that I have not seen as well. Oh, I know as much as anyone of the Free Marches. A pretty, spirited girl like you? No doubt bought and sold like so much fresh meat, torn from a father you loved, or perhaps sold by him, or perhaps you never knew anyone you could call family. Whatever the story, I have heard it. I may have lived it. I know whatever darkness you have known, Wildcat. You do not mind your new name, I hope, as you won't give me the true one. All you need to know is this. I have left those shadows you relish so. I crawled halfway up on my own, but I'd never have seen sunlight without helping hands, and I would not remain under the sky without what I have now. And I will not return to your darkness, Wildcat. Whatever you stand for would destroy what I have gained, and I am a selfish creature. Perhaps you would not fear me if I stood for my adopted king and country, for some obscure idea of justice, even for the love of the most generous heart the Maker ever crafted. I might not have, were our positions reversed. But know that I will not hesitate to do what I must to protect my life in the sun, and know also that whatever shadows you have seen, I will take you to darker and worse places than you could ever imagine."_

Zevran was a little shocked to hear himself, but he meant every word, and was feeling quite secure when the woman looked up at him again. The moment he met her dark eyes, he spun on his heel and made a fast retreat, not quite realizing his feet had begun to move without his say-so until he was halfway back to his room.

Right, she didn't scare him at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Zevran had been prone to nightmares all his life. When Theron had asked him (in one of those moments of a little too much sweetness for Zevran to accept gracefully) whether there'd been any joy at all in his life, he'd deflected the question. The answer, in its simplest form, was of course, "No." There had never been enough power in his little pleasures to overtake the misery. Songs from a bard down the street as a child, rare outings with the other young Crows in his youth, soft lips and hard floors rather too early all hadn't stood a chance of making it into his dreams.

The worst of them had abated since he'd joined the incomprehensibly kind Grey Warden, and even more since Theron had begun to share his bedroll. He'd attributed that more to escaping the Crows than his acquisition of a sarcastic redhead. Before he'd joined Theron's very motley crew, constant visions of Rinna's death had dogged him, interspersed with old images of maimed bodies or beautiful, mocking corpses, of cold nights spent ill and alone, rough hands and pain and frightening commands. With only the depths of Zevran's mind to draw from, his dreams could hardly be happy.

Rinna, at least, had retreated with his death wish into the gray, seldom-seen realms of his memory since he'd directed his energy against the Blight, but Zevran hadn't slept quietly by anyone else's standards, and tonight, his mind seemed determined to punish him.

When he saw Rinna, when he ran for her, she looked on him with the dark, cold gaze of the Wildcat, her bright hazel eyes hauntingly themselves and the madgirl's at once as blood began to stream freely from every orifice. When he turned to flee, he was greeted by Taliesin, completely himself but for the putrefying wound Alistair's blade had left in his chest, maggots crawling through the pus and over his lacerated armor. Closing his eyes didn't seem to work, and Zevran found himself rooted to the spot as the stink of death surrounded him. The ghoulish apparition spoke with the voice of the Crow who'd bought Zevran from the brothel. He had never quite convinced himself _that_ monster was dead. High ranking Crows had a way of just fading away and reappearing without fanfare. It was quite natural in dream logic to hear that grainy, affected noble accent from Taliesin, Memories of his dear friend were already long sullied, but at least he'd bedded Tali willingly, and this new confluence of memory was a horror he didn't know how to process. The dream didn't let him scream or run or fall on the sword his hand refused to reach, didn't allow any release. There was nowhere the swell of disgust and fear within him could go, and his heart felt about to burst with it.

He felt a soft hand against his forehead and for a moment was gripped with abject horror, thinking it was Rinna, but Zevran suddenly found himself blinking into perfect darkness. The fog of sleep and panic not quite gone, his mind didn't settle, though he knew that the cool fingers meant something, now tracing down the side of his face, now retreating, now slipping through his sweat-dampened hair. The smell of a man twined through with both wild, clear air and palace perfumery placed him quite outside that awful dream. He fastened on finally to a soft whisper of, "Nera, Lathallin."

_Lathallin_. His ear barely distinguished it, but that was "my love," not the easy _lethallin_ for "friend," and apparently the term was quite strong, given the way Theron blushed when he (rarely) said it. _Nera_ he didn't recall, but Zevran hardly cared. He was safely snuggled into his Theron's arms, not trapped on a filthy street between ghosts and guilt. He rolled over so sharply he wound himself up in the sheets and wrapped himself around Theron, burying his face in the other elf's shoulder. In a moment, he'd pull away, find some way to laugh this off, and spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling. Well, in _another_ moment.

"Oh, Zev." Theron never shortened his name. He'd never been sure why, but it made the familiarity striking.

There were those soft fingers in his hair again. Waking curled up with his lover to soft caresses should be lovely, and even now the gesture sent a muted shiver down his spine. Theron kissed his forehead. "It must have been bad. You don't usually wake up."

"Usually?" Zevran pulled back. He hated being afraid, and the easiest way to stop was to be angry instead. And Theron was conveniently… there, and sleepy enough to be rather tactless. And Zevran couldn't see a thing. Theron had actually closed their curtains, it seemed. It was so much simpler to vent his temper into an invisible void. "Usually. Is this a habit of yours? Letting me…" He couldn't finish. He wasn't telling Theron a thing about that dream, and without context, his tantrum couldn't go anywhere. He wasn't quite sleep-addled and irrational enough.

"Well, I used to try to wake you and pretend it was an accident, but if I did that every time you started up, you'd never have gotten any sleep." Theron sounded a bit hurt, but Zevran wasn't quite ready to be sorry for snapping. He didn't like this. Even to the man who'd helped to shoulder the burdens of all his crimes and miseries, Zevran didn't show weakness. He hadn't told Theron the details, hadn't passed along every little secret. There was nothing to gain by airing all that. He and Theron would take nothing of value from discussing how Rinna had only finally shared his bed three days before her murder. That one beautiful morning he'd met one of the boys he'd grown up with in the brothel, consumptive, syphilitic, and a revolting kind of drunk, and that those eyes had stayed with him in his dreams, long after blood and screams had ceased to matter. That at twelve he'd spent days wandering the streets, delirious and freezing, as he'd been expected to die from some horrid fever and abandoned by the Crows, accepted back without a word once he'd pulled through, unsure to the present what on earth might have happened to that half-mad, scared child he'd been, the memories merely a few blurs and cold tears.

He sat bolt upright, feeling a little dizzy from the abrupt change. "So you let me go on… What, tossing and turning and blathering in a foreign tongue? I suppose I sob into your bosom and whisper secrets." None of that had better be true. He wasn't so demonstrative in his nightmares, or he'd never have heard the end of it from the other Crows. And would probably have woken to a knife in his ribs. An assassin who spoke in his sleep was an obvious liability.

Perhaps peaceful sleep beside his lover and protector let him relax enough to… Zevran's eyes hardened, and his brows drew in. He was very glad of the dark. He didn't show anger if he could help it, no more than any other flimsy, fleeting feeling that meant surrendering power.

"I've never known you to cry," Theron said simply. Zevran felt a knot of panic begin to melt away. "One would have to know you to see. You breathe faster, your jaw clenches, you… Little things." Theron's hand covered Zevran's. Maker only knew how he found it in the dark.

"And now I suppose you expect some foolish heartfelt confession, and tears, and then everything will be healed and done with!" Zevran wasn't even snapping at Theron, anymore, just at a world where the cruelties he'd known and perpetrated flourished, where Chantry priests and Rinna and comfortable noblewomen thought all the filthy darkness would retreat from light even as they were all swallowed up, thought simply talking about the past could give you power over old tragedies. "Consider yourself informed. I've no wish to discuss it."

"Why would you want to?" The bed shifted as Theron sat up and entwined Zevran in his slim, strong arms, pulling him close. "As though that solves anything. Who do I look like, Alistair?"

Zevran's anger finally lost its bite and he managed a very small smile. "You don't look like anything at all. You may have noticed it is far too dark to see."

"Is it? I see you just fine. Your hair's taken on a mind of its own, by the way." Slow, measured, and deep, Theron's voice managed his accustomed teasing, but it took on another layer in the cool darkness.

Zevran leaned back against him, wanting to be enveloped in his lover's gentle affection. He was no less a wreck of a criminal here, no less guilty and damaged and ugly, but despite that, he was almost… content. "Just fine, is it? Another Warden trick?"

"I think it's a my-eyes-are-much-lighter-than-yours trick." Theron rested his chin on Zevran's shoulder and one hand in his hair. "Back to sleep?"

"So, it's really that easy? No admonishments or explanations needed?" Theron could be so bloody nosy. This was hard to believe.

"Well, one tiny piece of advice."

"I knew it."

"_You_ goaded me into it." Theron breathed in and out deeply. "Mourn her properly."

Zevran bit back another snarl. "And how does _she_ come into this?"

"Well, alright, but this is the _first_ time you've talked in your sleep. Ow." Zevran had punched his shoulder. Theron sighed. "I mean it, though. I don't think you've done anything to say goodbye. There's a reason everyone has these traditions. You had to run, and then you shipped yourself to Ferelden."

"True. But no Crow expects a decent burial. It is not something I have ever considered." When assassins had done their time (and it was a rare, rare Crow who made it to gray hair and cold days bundled by the fire), they were tossed in the nearest ditch and seldom spoken of again. There was nothing as strict as a taboo. The Crows were always a pragmatic organization. It was simply bad form to bring up the dead when nothing unexpected had happened and when the same fate might well await the nostalgic speaker around the next door.

"Because you're so careful of their other rules." Theron slipped one arm around Zevran's waist loosely. "Have an Antivan style ceremony, maybe? Sister Justine owes me a favor, and if any Ferelden sister would know foreign rituals…"

"A funeral requires a body."

"I'd be happy to show you the Dalish mourning rites." He sounded a little hesitant.

Despite his grim mood, Zevran recognized that the offer had been hard on Theron. He was so protective of Dalish particulars, and to offer whatever the sacred rituals were for an Alienage woman he'd never seen was a most magnanimous gesture. It seemed crass not to accept, and he had to assume that Dalish deaths involved gentle songs and possibly leaves in some way. Zevran didn't think Rinna would really appreciate such a memorial, but he would. And maybe something soft and reverent would let the manic, wild she-devil rest.

"I… would like that," Zevran said quietly. He turned and pressed his lips to the curved line where Theron's neck met his shoulder. A favorite place to nibble, but for once, Zevran kept the kiss delicate and undemanding. Normally, sex was an excellent remedy for a bad mood, but between the memories his nightmare had stirred and the oddly solemn moment, possible only in the dark with sleep stinging at his eyes, he wanted intimacy, not passion.

"Good." Theron moved away a little, though he didn't let go. "Back to sleep?"

"Yes, I think so." Zevran lay down, smiling slightly as Theron cuddled close, his nose pressed into Zevran's hair. "Goodnight then, big spoon."

"It's an hour until dawn and you're taller than I am."

"What is my rule about making prescient observations?"

"Only Zevran gets to do that." Theron yawned. "Go to sleep, Lathallin."

He smiled as he closed his eyes, but as soon as he began to drift off, he felt those horrid visions press again at the edge of his mind. Zevran sighed and shifted a bit. This would be a long, sleepless night. And the least he could do was share the irritation. "Well, you owe me a secret now."

Theron grunted, apparently well on his way back to dreamland. "…How do you figure?"

"You have apparently been aware of my night terrors since we began fitting two to a bedroll. I feel this is unfair." Zevran rolled over so his face was an inch from Theron's. "So as I see it, I should have a secret of yours in return."

"What secrets?"

Zevran wished he could see Theron's face. He was so good at keeping his voice even that there was nothing to read. He smiled a little anyway. There was no reason to think it wasn't true. For such a good liar, Theron was oddly honest. "You _are_ entirely too apt to neglect concealment. Why, not even a thought to hiding from the populace that the Hero of Ferelden takes the filthy, foreign whoreson to bed." He heard a sharp intake of breath. Zevran found it sweet that Theron objected to his self-deprecation, and he'd taken up doing it a little more often as a result. And there was no avoiding that punchlines at his own expense were funny.

"I do have one, actually." His voice fell to an odd whisper, still unreadable.

"Oh, I am aquiver." What would a secret of Theron's be? Zevran ignored a slight trepidation, the knowledge that information was usually kept hidden for good cause. Theron had lived in the woods and galloped about hunting up until only a very little time before he and Zevran had met, and Zevran had been there for the terrible decisions he'd had to make along the way.

There was a long pause in the dark, long enough for Zevran to begin to regret asking. "I slept with Morrigan." The sentence was blurted like the confession of a guilty brat quizzed about missing cookies.

Zevran's impulse was to laugh, but first he had to find a way to ignore a sudden, tight knot in his stomach, a rush of heat to his cheeks that he refused to make sense of. "Really? And what a lovely catch that was. I am impressed. And a little offended that you did not ask me to join." He believed Theron about being a virgin when they'd first fallen into the furs together, so it must have been since then. "Though I thought you didn't like women."

He felt Theron shudder slightly. "I don't."

"Then she must make really excellent use of her feminine wiles." Why did he feel so much like slapping someone? He'd been enjoying his sole claim to Theron's bed, and he couldn't pretend he felt anything but love for the other elf, but that didn't give him reason to resent a roll in the hay when he'd told Theron repeatedly they were only having fun. "When did you manage that?" His own voice sounded a little high and thin.

"The night before we marched on Denerim."

"What?" Zevran forgot to tell himself he didn't care, half sitting up with sudden rage in his eyes. "…Wait. You were with me that night." And it had been fantastic. Zevran was very fond of disaster sex, as it happened. And equally fond, lately, of snuggling until dawn.

"…Wet and perfumed, if you recall. Can I go back to the beginning?" Zevran _hmmphed_ sharply, but didn't stop him. "Heard any of the muttering about how I'm supposed to be dead?"

"Theron, you should be dead twelve times over with the things you attempt."

"Fair, but… Really, that time. It's supposed to destroy a Grey Warden to kill an archdemon."

"And yet you remain intriguingly alive. Yes, I see the trouble here, but I repeat that you survive events you ought not at least twice a week." The first rush of hot anger over with, Zevran lay back down, paying no mind to the itchiness behind his eyes, the tightness in his stomach. He was so unused to raw distress and jealousy he could barely recognize the physical aftereffects, let alone the actual emotion. "And I do not see the connection."

"A ritual. Something only a loony apostate witch could pull off. The details escape me… The child of a Grey Warden somehow can accept that which usually destroys the Warden that kills the archdemon. It was complicated. Essentially, she offered a way for me to live when I shouldn't have."

"Oh." Zevran couldn't for a moment entertain any idea that he'd rather have Theron dead and faithful, but the sick, ugly rush of resentment didn't recede. "And with what result?"

"I have a child. Or I will soon. And I'll never see it. That was her price. It'll have some sort of power of older gods…" Theron sounded perfectly unconcerned, which bothered Zevran in a distant part of his mind. Perhaps worshipping broken statues with names like dreams gave one a casual view of reawakening ancient, slumbering powers? "And the, er, immediate result was me fleeing the room after about five minutes, dunking myself in the Arl's baths, and, well, I sort of jumped you."

"And I was very flattered at the time. When I imagined you'd escaped some stern, Wardenly war counsel." Zevran was gradually calming down, finding comfort in Theron's obvious distaste. It was hard to be offended when he pictured Theron turning his face away or fleeing the room, and his idea of the look on the proud witch's face was too precious. But then Zevran was struck by an image of the act. In itself, not at all unappealing, but knowing Theron must have bedded the woman with _his_ earring on… He wasn't done being angry yet.

"I wanted to live." Theron leaned in close and kissed Zevran's forehead. "It's not just death the archdemon brings. It's oblivion, never to walk with Falon'Din, to meet my ancestors in the Beyond…" Suddenly Zevran was pressed painfully tightly to Theron's chest. "And never to see you again."

Funny thing to get his head around. _I slept with a beautiful, wicked woman for you._ And Zevran still wasn't reconciled to jealousy, as angry with himself as with Theron. If he'd had his own room, he might even have slept alone tonight. But Theron sounded (and it was _very_ disquieting) almost on the edge of tears. So Zevran hugged him back. Begrudgingly.

"I'm sorry."

"Good." Zevran felt low for that, somehow sure despite the darkness that Theron looked like he'd just been slapped. He settled back in beside Theron, not cuddled so close this time.

"I love you."

He softened and moved a little nearer. "Yes, I know." It wouldn't be a comfortable night full of snuggles, but at least the nightmares had retreated. Zevran closed his eyes, aware of Theron's gaze on him in the dark. Through his anger, he was touched despite himself, and found that intense look endearing. He didn't doubt for a moment that Theron loved him, something he'd never really let himself bask in and relish.

Zevran dreamed through the rest of the night of a gossamer-thin child with dark hair and thundercloud-gray eyes, ears coming to a sort of abbreviated point as seemed proper for an impossible hybrid. He knew so little of children that even a dream couldn't elaborate, couldn't show him what to make of Theron's get, but the image remained as he blinked awake.

The light belonged to mid-morning and he was alone, both rather confusing and unfamiliar states in this bed. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and smelled warm biscuits and honey. A plate was waiting on the bedside table with a mug of cool, sweet tea beside, and a tiny crystal vase with a sprig of amaranth within stood by. Leaving flowers wasn't at all like Theron, but throwing an irrational fit in the darkness before dawn and demanding that his lover break his heart wasn't like Zevran. He stared at the tiny, crimson petals for a long moment before he tucked into is waiting breakfast, dressed carefully, and headed out in search of Theron.

The dratted elf had taken the dog with him. Zevran was quite attached to the hulking animal, who'd happily track an errant lover as well as chase a stick for hours on end while Zevran needed to think. He hoped Theron hadn't gone off again. Surely someone would think the king and the hero under close guard after yesterday's attack?

Zevran rounded a corner and almost walked into Wynne. The woman was carefully examining a mirror hung in the hall. To Zevran it appeared unremarkable, smooth glass over mercury and set into a finely carved frame of pale wood. The mage was seeing something he was not, and curiosity had always been his greatest vice.

"You do retain a transfixing, unique beauty, lady. What a vision gazes back upon you, eh?" He beamed innocently as she turned to frown at him. Zevran felt it was a fond frown. She barely tolerated him, true, and only for Theron's sake, but she was probably the dearest creature ever to grudgingly acknowledge his existence.

"Oh, good, it's you." Such an excellent deadpan. "I wasn't feeling plagued and dirty enough this morning. If you're looking for your lover, he's volunteered to wrangle the king's assorted young relatives."

"The intelligence is appreciated." Zevran bowed, low and courtly, his forehead almost meeting the ground. "And I willingly concede I owe you a boon. Now tell me, what in the mirror had you so very entranced?"

"Mirrors are doors to the Fade. Not useful doors to humans. …Or elves." Wynne did always try to be inclusive, probably thanks to that apprentice of hers. "But they allow glances into dream. Most mages cannot harness this trick with any reliability at all. A snatch of vision from the corner of one's eye is the most to reasonably expect."

"But your tone suggests that is not the situation for you, dear lady?" Zevran was sincerely interested, and as such trying to behave.

"No doubt as a result of my specific condition." She shrugged. "I'm only marginally better than any other mage at seeing through to the Fade in this way, but I'm able to hold a vision for a few seconds at least. Perhaps my companion is checking in on things at home." She smiled. Zevran supposed she did seem like a grandmother, though it was a concept he was only dimly familiar with. "Usually the experience is comfortable enough. My spirit belongs to the gentler parts of its world. Of late, however, those brief moments of insight are dark."

She looked grave, certainly, and Zevran trusted her knowledge of this rather esoteric subject. "Which means?"

"If I could tell you, I would. I feel as though what's happening is a disruption, an invasion of sorts into the parts of the Fade which correspond roughly to the castle. It's far from a physical correlation, of course, put together from the minds of those living here now, memories of past misery and delight, the crossroads of so much power… Well, I can see your attention is wandering."

Zevran was startled. His attention, as it happened, was firmly tethered. Perhaps she was just assuming from precedent. This news upset him and he wasn't sure why. "As a matter of fact, and I could see why you might not believe me, I was in fact _rapt_."

"Were you? I apologize, then." Wynne was nothing if not fair. "You're difficult to read. Well, I don't claim to understand what's going on, but it's unsettling."

"I agree." Zevran turned his eyes down for a moment, then recovered his usual wicked glee. "Shifting malevolence in the realms beyond. Sounds like the beginning of another grand adventure for us all."

"Away with you, now. Though I don't know if it's in my best conscience to send you in the direction of children."

"Oh, now, I love children. I was one myself for many years." Zevran strode off before he realized that, though he knew who Theron was with, he still didn't know where. If he had to send a parcel of annoying brats and a short-tempered elf somewhere in a castle, where might he choose? Too esoteric a question. He settled on asking a maid, which he ought to have done in the first place.

Theron was in a small sitting room, side chamber to an unused guest suite. It seemed even smaller than usual as what looked like about two dozen assorted-sized urchins swarmed back and forth. As his eyes became accustomed to the fray, Zevran reduced that count to five, two of which were currently climbing on Theron. Three boys, one girl, and an infant whose gender wasn't apparent. Not one of them looked particularly like the others and they ranged from (at his uneducated guess) two to twelve. They were dressed in little more than rags, skinny and bruised, and altogether looked as though they should be as miserable as their sour mother.

But they weren't. The ginger-haired girl, a head taller than any of the others, was dictating the terms of an impressive battle waged between her two brothers, all of them grinning and giggling, while a wide-eyed, tow-headed moppet had successfully demanded a piggy-back ride from Theron and was looking quite triumphant. The smallest one was admiring a flower, probably deciding whether to eat it or pull it to bits. The room overall practically oozed contentment.

In the center of it all, Theron was unmoved by the fray. He seemed not to so much as notice the tugging at his hair, gently bouncing the baby whenever it looked like it might decide to be distressed. He intervened with a firm, short word whenever the dueling boys might do one another real damage. Zevran couldn't help pausing to watch for a moment. A side to Theron he hadn't seen, and one that made him think back to his dreams of the night before.

Resolutely, Zevran crossed the room, caught Theron's eye, and kissed him. A very soft, chaste kiss, the sort that didn't come very naturally to him, but which felt necessary to get his point across. The previous night was forgiven. Not forgotten, perhaps. Zevran was sure he'd stew irrationally over the whole thing a time or two more. But he'd never been the kind to hold a grudge, except against himself.

Theron blinked, surprised, but understood him. Or he seemed to. Zevran often wondered when they communicated wordlessly whether he ever understood what his lover meant, and vice versa. They seemed to get along alright, so it wasn't worth too much debate. "Morning to you, too," Theron said quietly, resting his forehead against Zevran's for just a moment before straightening.

"Ew! Yuck, kissy stuff." Theron's shoulder child jumped down to go fight with his brothers.

"How did you wind up in charge of these?" Zevran raised a curious eyebrow.

"It's a bit convoluted." Theron wrinkled his nose. "The current idea seems to be that Alistair and I should stay apart, since we're both targets. Split the enemy forces."

"It's as legitimate a strategy as any. One might just as readily say it is best to keep you two together, that you might be guarded more efficiently." Zevran sighed. Without knowing more of the goals of the assassins at work, their skill, or what numbers and power they could muster, he didn't know how to make that decision. He'd just stick like glue to Theron henceforth. Probably his best plan, and an enjoyable one. "But I don't quite see how it results in you watching over the… throng."

"I'm a bodyguard of sorts. Keep in mind, one of these is the closest thing Ferelden has to an heir right now." He gestured to the mass of children. There really did seem to be about a dozen. Zevran wondered how they did that. It'd be rather a handy trick. "Until we find someone Alistair will consent to marry, and he wrings a little princeling out of her, his half-sister's crop will have to do."

"Nothing wrong with royal bastards." Zevran was surprised when the nearest two looked at him with wide eyes and then fell to whispering. "…What did I do there?"

"Cursed in front of children?"

"Oh." He supposed he had. Funny, that. What would it have been like to grow up in a world determined to protect his innocence rather than destroy it? He was even more curious about the noisy little things now. He didn't resent them, exactly, nor did he want one, by any means. But they had a certain fascination. "Oops."

"I have trouble with that, too." Theron shrugged. "But they're good little imps." He'd know better than Zevran, certainly. How would one judge one child's worth over another? Cuteness seemed a decent criterion, but they all were about equal in that. Cleverness? Durability? He didn't think he should ask in front of them.

The child that had just jumped down tugged on Theron's sleeve. "Ser Dalish? Does your kissing friend bear the sign of the Keeper of Secrets, too?"

Before Zevran had a chance to express his consternation with any number of things in that statement, Theron crouched down a little. "No, Zevran wasn't born among my people, so he hasn't undergone the rite of Vallaslin. You'll have to ask him what his tattoos mean."

Zevran _had_ to cut in. "Ser Dalish?"

"Only the oldest one can pronounce Mahariel, they've been convinced they'll have their hides tanned if they call an adult by a first name, and I prefer it to their first idea."

"Ser Knife-ears, was it?"

"Yup." Theron looked strained. "So what _do_ those markings mean?"

"They tell the harrowing tale of how Zevran was very easy to get drunk at the age of nineteen and extremely prone to taking dares at the time." He ran his fingers idly down the ocher lines. The facial tattoos were a bad idea, making far too easy to identify and very difficult to disguise. Still, he liked them. He'd been told during his brief time among the Dalish that they could be incorporated into a design like Theron wore. A thought, but not one he was perfectly comfortable with.

When he looked back down, the child had run off to rejoin his brothers. Zevran rolled his eyes. Attention span of a squirrel. "Kissing friend?"

"I'm fairly sure their mother switches out her paramours rather often." Theron shrugged without judgment. Zevran had always liked that about him. Unless they were discussing something explicitly human or distinctly ill-considered, he was opinionated but fair. "Whatever they want to say about having, I would guess, five different fathers between them is fine with me."

"Reasonable." Zevran nodded. "So, I can't help but notice you educating the potential heirs and members of the makeshift royal family in Dalish lore."

"Oh, hardly lore. Simply... awareness." He smiled slightly. "If they happen to come away thinking elves are wise, powerful, and valuable friends and allies, what's the harm?"

"You're brilliantly insidious is what you are." Zevran gave Theron's hair a little tug and went to settle into one of the chairs, all of them rather large and cushy. He chose the least appealing, which seemed unlikely to attract small leaping missiles in child form.

He wondered where Cou'ghi might be. With Alistair, maybe? No matter how calm the beast, one wouldn't expose a wardog to five misbehaving children. The end of his patience would come eventually and violently with that many tugs on his tail and ears, and it would be counted his fault, not the brat's. Zevran knew very well what the world made of an abused animal fighting back.

Withdrawing from the thick of the chaos, Zevran watched Theron through slitted eyes, trying to get the measure of this peculiar new facet of his lover.

He let them wear themselves down to near silence with their manic energy, then began to speak to them in a gentle, sonorous voice of bits and pieces of elvish stories. Not the important ones, the tales of gods he was loath to share even with Zevran, but simple tales of a Halla who nursed a bear back to health or clever twin brothers who outwitted a wolf. He was no master of the art, but Theron had a perfectly competent manner of telling stories. Zevran was happy enough to listen to the fables himself, not much different from the stories he'd occasionally begged from the whores when he was that size.

He found Theron's tales fascinating nonetheless. Zevran had been raised to the Andrastian religion like any Antivan child. He'd dutifully entered the Chantry after each bout with sin. When he was very small, he'd begged forgiveness for stealing from the brothel's customers, first out of hunger and then from greed and to show off to the other children. As he'd grown older, there'd been no end to the murders, deceptions, ill-considered trysts, thefts, and wanton acts of destruction he'd offered up to the silent god in hopes of reconciliation. It had become a chore in the past few years when he stopped hoping for any response. The priests spoke true. The Maker had no interest in answering anyone's calls.

At least the strange gods of Theron's people had an excuse for their absence. The Creators had tried and failed to serve their own, from what Zevran could make out, which he found more admirable than a distant deity declaring his creation a mistake a turning away in a snit. He would rather revere such gods as meant well. He simply couldn't convince himself of their reality. Not by daylight, at least. Lying beside his lover and tracing the symbols of Dirthamen written in black over Theron's bone-pale skin, he could almost believe in the dreamy figures the Dalish adored so.

Zevran had had no sleep of any quality until the very end of the night, and despite the noise, the scene around him was so safe and comfortable as to be unreal. Zevran had often spent hours crouched alone and without stimulus, waiting for a mark to pass, but all that nervous, constrained energy had left him. He drifted off, not knowing when his quiet ruminations on Theron's gods became actual dreams.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Theron gently shook his shoulder. "Come on, lunch."

"Wouldn't want to miss that. My first meal as a poison taster." He was almost looking forward to it. Someone really should have woken him for breakfast, but it was just as well they hadn't. He might have bitten someone's head off had he been dragged out of bed.

"What does poison taste like?" the girl asked, chewing on the very blond end of her braid.

"Like wholesome vegetables." Zevran congratulated himself on keeping a straight face, especially in the face of Theron's barely restrained snickering. He followed the other elf's lead. "Who are all of these, by the way? I assume they have names, and not just numbers?"

"Oh, um..." Theron considered for a moment and then hurried through the five names so smoothly it was clear he'd only learned them as a set. "Judi, Mihai, Trayl, Olim, and Milara. In order of age."

Zevran was sure of the oldest and youngest, at least, but not willing to bank on any of the boys in the middle, and Theron's gestures had been vague. He decided not to bother. Ingratiating himself with the country's very tentative heirs might not be a bad idea, even if children had the attention spans of squirrels. "So, Miss Judi, are you enjoying palace life thus far?"

"It's fancy." She was a dark-haired, spindly thing, all pointy joints and mild scrapes, her eyes shifty and active and her movements a spider's. She'd have made it, he guessed, in the lot fate had handed Zevran, and he was oddly compelled to make sure it never found her. "Also, the food's real good."

"For Ferelden cuisine, perhaps, which is like saying being shot in the arm is excellent. One might be shot in the face, but the arrow is no pleasanter."

"Huh?"

"Fereldens cannot cook."

"Oh." She nodded. "...Was you in the fight with the big dragon, too?"

"Well, for a given value of... _in_ the fight. I mostly tried not to be set on fire and took potshots at its head with a ballista."

"Ooh, a ballista?" She grinned with a wild bloodthirstiness that almost made him laugh. "But it was _him_ who killed it." She pointed at Theron's back.

"If you want to know, it was mostly Alistair who wounded it. With some help from our Orlesian bardess. Intense, skilled combat in close quarters. Your uncle is excellent at such things. Theron grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and just barely managed to smash it through the dragon's neck once the king had brought it down. Inelegance and being in the right place at strange times is what your Ser Dalish is good at."

"Thank you Zevran. You flatter me."

"You love it."

"Can't argue." Theron winked at him and ushered the children into the kitchen. Zevran glanced down the hall, toward the big chambers where Theron usually ate with esteemed guests. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"Ah, did you hear the best part of my spending time apart from His Majesty? We won't be appearing at the same functions unless absolutely necessary." Theron grinned wickedly.

Zevran made an exaggerated bow. "To your unequaled mastery, Ser Dalish."

His smile faded a bit as he set the children to spaces around the usual servants' table. "You're not letting that drop, are you?"

"It's far too amusing. Have you made a decision yet about your coat of arms? Perhaps a pointy ear and a leaf?" Zevran wasn't sure how much he was pushing it. He was wending toward one of Theron's sore spots, and while his paramour wasn't known for flares of temper, Zevran didn't really enjoy his disapproval.

He realized his teasing was petty revenge for the night before and stopped. Rather abruptly, he turned to a boy who smelled of woodsmoke and garlic. "Well, I'm to be testing the king's meal. I hope the plate hasn't been readied. It is best if I observe."

The drudge he'd chosen to question looked confused, but the cook swooped down and ushered him over to the day's selection. She seemed offended by the idea that any of her cooking might be unwholesome. At least she'd taken Zevran's instructions to heart. The meat was well cooked, which destroyed at least some of the efficacy of many poisons. Rather than the sort of heavy, dull gravy Fereldens seemed to pour on everything, salty enough to hide the taste of just about any venomous component, the roast was simply salted and dusted with herbs. The dollop of limp green stuff was less promising, but Zevran had a hard time imagining someone poisoning the spinach. How undignified. And of course, wine.

His compliments to her forethought didn't seem to hold much weight, and Zevran still felt the cook's glare on the back of his neck as he sampled from the king's own plate. He took a moment to enjoy the experience. Gold-filigreed Orlesian porcelain, a crystal wine glass, the choicest cut from the cow... Ah, luxury. Pointless, fleeting luxury not much pleasanter than ordinary life, really, but the principle of the thing was to enjoy the lavish moment.

He smelled carefully first, took very small bites, and chewed for a long time, searching for any grit or telltale shifts in texture. Everything seemed in order, though the cook sniffed at him when he said so. He had to work his way into that woman's good books. How else would he take over his kitchen when the mood took him?

Zevran headed back to the table with the others, where Theron was barely keeping order. It seemed the troops had decided they were hungry, and the three oldest had taken up a chant to that effect. Theron's calm was beginning to look a bit ruffled, but Zevran had no idea how to throw in support other than to try and flag down someone to indicate which platter was meant to serve the king's assorted little relatives.

Once they'd been served, Judi directed her brothers in a squeaky little rendition of some snippet or other of the Chant of Life. Rather a show of piety for a bunch of hungry children, but Zevran recognized the technique. Food long awaited, with time to smell and savor, was more filling, and anything to keep hungry little mouths from wolfing it all down at once would seem to stretch strained supplies. There'd been a prayer and a pledge to the king when he was a child, replaced by a recitation of Crow law after his purchase.

Half listening, Zevran was suddenly aware of the slightest little shift in his balance. The assassin survived through awareness and a perfectly attuned body, and Zevran knew every vein and nerve of himself. The moment the balance shifted, he knew.

It came on fast from there, but Zevran was faster. He slapped the spoon from Judi's hand, ignoring the spots fast forming around his vision. "No one touch it. One of you, run and tell your uncle not to eat. That goes for everyone." His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he was losing motor control.

Zevran was faintly aware of his head hitting the table, and after that, nothing until his eyes fluttered open to a cool breeze and his accustomed view of the night sky from Theron's bed. His head was resting on his lover's lap and the elf's hands were in his hair. It would have been a lovely place to be if he'd had any idea how he'd gotten there. And if his mouth hadn't been as dry as a desert with every muscle aching if he tried to move it.

Theron pressed a damp handkerchief to Zevran's lips. "Good to see you awake."

"Is it? I doubt I look my best." He winced, hearing his voice grind like he'd been inhaling smoke for a week.

"Mm, you look a bit worse than Alistair. Being so pale doesn't suit you." Theron bent down at a very odd angle and kissed his forehead. "But you saved the king and about half his court."

"It was all poisoned?"

"Every bite. It's been a hungry evening in the castle." Theron sighed. "No one's dead, though a few more are sick. At least no one's allowed to eat before the king does, so there were only a few nibbles at the sides of plates. Apparently it was very dramatic with Mihai bursting in and ducking under a guard's shield to yell, I believe, 'Nuncle, don't eat that! It killed the ballista elf!"

"...It beats Ser Dalish."

"The child is four." Theron smiled. Zevran's eyes were adjusting to the dim light in the room, a gibbous moon and a warm lantern-glow from under the door meeting in the middle to ghostly effect. Theron looked a bit strained and pale, too. He'd been worried.

Zevran closed his eyes. He didn't think anyone had ever _worried_ for him before, and it was surprisingly pleasant in a very quiet way. Like sunlight on his face after a long night underground.

And now he was being silly. He opened his eyes again.

"It wasn't much of a rescue, was it? I didn't catch it in time. Had it not been for the delay that comes with a state meal..."

"What was it?" Theron spoke a bit too quickly. Trying to cut him off. Zevran supposed he'd given his lover reason to fret. Zevran Arainai wasn't one to forgive himself easily.

But Theron had chosen the wrong question to take his mind off his failure. "No idea. That's the worst of it." He knew every poison in Thedas, and they'd still beaten him. It was something very exotic, a new combination of components... Or maybe he just wasn't as good as he thought he was. Even the symptoms didn't really match anything in his experience. Pain, weakness, severe dehydration... He'd have to watch himself and take more careful note. He was still too groggy.

"And they were willing to kill most of the castle. ...Eager, I'd bet." Theron sighed. "You should try and drink something." Zevran quietly resented his temporary helplessness as Theron helped him sit up and steadied the water for him. He downed three full glasses and leaned back against Theron with a sigh.

"They've already tried to burn a royal carriage in the middle of a crowded street. They like bold, ridiculous displays. This cannot go on. You and I need to find out the source and the cause." There was no one else he'd trust. Oh, for Leliana right now, but of course, she had to be off in Orlais.

"Mmm, yes, two tattooed elves with accents. We'll be a perfect investigation team."

Zevran flicked the tip of his nose. "And who else?"

"It's the lesser of available evils. But for tonight, sleep, Lathallin."


End file.
